


one and three sevenths

by cicadas



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Friendship, Getting Together, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, John is a giggly drunk, M/M, Nightmares, Past Domestic Violence, Roger Has His Eggs Poached For Breakfast, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: "Between mine and Fred's, mine's the biggest. It's no double, but you're skinny, so it should be fine." Roger states happily.John looks over at the small room. Clothes on the floor, posters on the low ceiling, and the single bed pressed up against the wall.Yeah,his thoughts echo.Totally fine.





	1. it's fine

The bedroll he's fashioned himself is unfurling.

He's on the third floor, standing outside what he assumes to be the correct door, going purely off memory. His shoes are muddy and he's tracked it all along the hallway carpet, leading it right up to Freddie's door in case anyone should doubt where to pin the blame.

He scrapes a bit of grass off the heel of his platform and onto the carpet, figuring it was dirty anyway, shifts his tied-up duvet and pillow so it's tucked under his elbow, and knocks.

 

He hears someone bustling about on the opposite side of the cheap wood almost immediately.

_"-Og, get the- get that thing, yes move that-- Got to answer the bloody door, move it!"_

Freddie's voice is dampened, but clearly his own. John begins to smile just as the door swings open.

"Deaky!" Freddie exclaims, as if John didn't phone to tell him he was coming over only half an hour earlier. "So good to see you. Come in, come in."

He ushers him through the door, rushing behind to push it closed, and John feels his bedroll being tugged out from under him. He instinctively clutches onto it, then realises it's just Fred, and lets go.

Freddie appears in front of him, swinging the roll (which was now more of a tied-up pile, thanks to it loosening bit by bit as he made his way here on two buses and his feet). He throws it over his shoulder like a hitchhiker and gestures to the flat.

"Welcome to our home,"

It's nothing John hasn't seen before, but it's a nice sight all the same. Freddie is clean, choosy with his decorations and ornaments, and always manages to make sure wherever he lived is warm and well lit. With the power bill being what it is here, 'well-lit' means some salt candles and the one window always uncovered.

There's a clank of metal on wood, and John looks around to see Roger crawl out from the back of the couch, right beside the door.

He squints, and Roger grins, holding up a screwdriver.

"I was fixing the door when you came in - thought I'd hide and scare you but you wouldn't turn this bloody way." He says, getting to his feet.

Freddie rolls his eyes. "We're not daft, Roger, we both know you got lost behind there. Pity it wasn't for longer, I was about to give John a tour."

"He's seen the place! And what do you mean, I'm great at house tours!" Rog says, shoving Freddie playfully as he walks by them both to get to the kitchenette.

"Yes, with a bunch of unnecessary and positively crude facts thrown in!"

Roger tosses up a V without turning from the kettle.

"The couch one is true at least!"

Freddie hums to himself. "Yes, the couch one is true," He looks up at John, making a face. "We're going to fix it, of course, but I'm afraid you won't be able to sleep there while we wait to get you a mattress."

John turns his head, and sees that all three cushions are missing from the base of the couch. How did he not notice that before? When did they disappear?

"Where-" He starts.

"In the bin." Roger and Freddie answer at the same time.

John doesn't bother asking why.

 

After he's made tea, Roger slumps into one of the two dining chairs around the little table and lights a smoke. There's a box of matches and a heavy glass ash tray on the table instead of a fruit bowl or some kind of decoration, which tells John they definitely have their priorities set when it comes to smoking versus eating. He's not sure he's ever seen them eat and actual meal here, thinking about it now.

Freddie pats him on the shoulder, pulling him back into the present. He's still holding John's stuff.

"Tour now? Or did you want a smoke?"

John shakes his head. "Let's do it."

Freddie quirks an eyebrow. "Don't sound too excited, you might get Roger all worked up."

Roger makes a sound from behind them, and John flushes, deliberately not turning in case Roger saw the colour in his face.

"Come on then," Freddie grabs at his hand, so John lets himself be pulled out of the kitchen. Away from Roger.

Again, the flat is nothing he hadn't seen before. Bedroom, bedroom, (John still isn't sure how they manage to afford a two-roomer, especially while they can only work every now and then), toilet and bath, then back to the wide room that collected the lounge and kitchenette into one cohesive living space. There was no island bench to cut off the kitchen, only one running along the wall, so their solution was so place the television set and speakers in the middle of the room, facing the door and the couch, with the 'dining table' tucked into a corner by the end of the kitchen bench.

It was an odd set up, because it would make more sense to have the couch and TV switch places - they'd be able to watch telly while cooking, and the couch was a much better room divider. But they'd had complaints about noise by a neighbour they'd never met before, and didn't want to push their luck.

They'd had a hard enough time finding this place; they didn't want to have to search for another.

John knows it all too well - his course had come to an end, which meant he was out of a room by the end of the month. That was three days ago. He found his door being knocked on with his things half-packed several hours past the final move date, and stayed quiet so he wouldn't have to answer.

Then he had called Freddie, near-panic, and was told to bring his things over immediately.

When he asked about the rest of his stuff, Freddie had laughed. "What are they going to do, toss it out? No, darling - it'll be in the college storage until you can pick it up. We'll help you move it, me and Rog will. As long as you're out and they can clear the room for the next student, you're alright. You're alright, John. Calm down and bring your bedding over here. Worry about the rest later."

So he did. And here he is, standing out the front of Roger's room, his pillow tossed over the top of Roger's by Freddie, who finds it quite hilarious that they'll be rooming together.

"Right, well you can put your backpack wherever, I'm going to have a smoke in the lounge. I need one after all this door business." Freddie states, then he's gone, leaving John to stand awkwardly in the corridor.

He rocks back and forth on his heels - as best he can given the height of them - and wonders how he managed to get himself into this position.

 

Roger's voice comes from beside him, peering over his shoulder into his bedroom.

"Between mine and Fred's, mine's the biggest. It's no double, but you're skinny, so it should be fine." Roger states happily. Then he leans in closer, and John can smell his baby-powder deodorant. "Don't tell Fred, but it's actually mine from home. Mum turned my room into a sewing room when I left, and I got to keep the mattress. Freddie thinks I picked it up somewhere for a bargain."

Roger laughs. "He's pissed off I didn't tell him about the 'sale' cause he's sleeping on glorified foam,"

John makes a little noise in his throat to substitute a laugh.

"So we'll be sharing, then?" He asks casually, though he knows what the answer will be.

Roger hums. "Until we can get you a bed, or we find replacement couch cushions, yeah."

He looks at him, and John wonders in that moment if Roger _knows_ , the way his eyes are so assuring, his words gentle and light.

"It's no big deal. And it's only temporary. It'll be fine."

Yeah, John's thoughts echo. Totally fine.

He moves, and John feels the heat of his body peel away from his side. He hadn't noticed how close he was before.

"Smoke?" Roger offers.

John accepts.

 

- 

 

 

The first night goes better than expected.

Roger smokes in bed, John discovers.

He set up his own 'side' of the bed, arranging the covers to be seperate and the pillows apart, only to find Roger ignore it completely when it came time to get into bed.

John watches him pull his duvet across, then John's over the top of it, and slide under.

He lights a cig as soon as his head hits the pillow, ashing it in a cup on his bedside table.

"What're you doing, Rog?" John asks, pyjama bottoms in hand.

"Reading the Herald. What d'you think?"

John shrugs.

He gets changed quickly, knowing Roger probably can't make out the finer details with the lamp off, so he doesn't feel too self conscious when he slides his jeans down his legs and pulls his shorts on. They're short, but they're soft, and cotton, and he's worn shorter out and about.

He opts for crawling between Roger and the wall rather than crawling over him to get to his side.

When he's settled, Roger offers him a drag.

John takes it wordlessly, sucking the smoke into his lungs and exhaling it up at the ceiling. He doesn't miss how Roger's fingers brush his when he passes it back.

John turns so he's facing the wall.

"Night, Roger."

"G'night, John."

 

-

 

He wakes with hair in his mouth that isn't his.

Cracking an eye open, John looks blearily down to his chest, where a heavy head covered in blonde hair is tucked snugly under his chin.

John pulls the loose strands out of his mouth as gently as he can so they don't pull on Roger's scalp, and lets his hand come down to brush across his forehead, parting his golden locks so he can see his face.

He's dead asleep still, breaths deep and eyelids heavy over the blue eyes John adores.

He lets his own head fall back onto the pillow and contemplates how utterly fucked he is.

He does not have feelings for Roger. He doesn't.

He repeats the sentiment as he casts one more look down at the sleeping boy - not quite a man just yet - resting on his heart. The words do absolutely nothing to quash the rush of elation he feels when he does.

 

 _Totally fine,_ John repeats. It makes him want to laugh.

He doesn't, because the shaking of his chest might wake Roger, and that's when he knows for sure he's in way too deep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is me again, writing something that has been written a thousand times, but it's my favourite trope, and i'm the writer, so i'm going to bloody well write it.
> 
> this was basically a set-up, explaining why they're sharing a bed to begin with. the next chapters will be the nights themselves.


	2. bad dream

John is woken from his dream by a knee in his thigh.

It pinches a nerve, waking him immediately and kicking his temper up from its sleep.

He can hear Roger whining about something but can't make out the words yet, so he mumbles at him to shut up and rolls over.

He's asleep again in an instant.

 

-

 

It happens again.

 

This time the covers are kicked off, and it's the cold that wakes John, slowly but surely rousing him from dreamless sleep.

His eyes open in the dark, taking in nothing but black, and for a minute he has no idea where he is. Usually the light of the small window by the far wall would be letting in some moonlight at least, showing him the cornices of the ceiling and telling him he is safe in bed. But he can't see anything.

Because he's in Roger's room, in his bed, with no window to let in the light.

John relaxes, shaking his head at his flare of anxiety, and begins to kick the quilt up with his feet so he can grab at it and pull it all the way over him. Then he reaches over and makes sure it's covering Roger, too.

Roger lets out a whine when he touches him.

 

John moves his hand away carefully, figuring he's woken him, but then Roger does it again, louder, and John isn't even touching him anymore.

"Rog?"

There's no response.

John wriggles down into the bed a little, closer to Roger than the wall - it's cold and hard against his back when he sleeps, whereas Roger is warm and small enough to curl himself around without really touching him. Given the two options, he chooses the latter. Roger doesn't seem to respond, so John assumes he's gone back to sleep (if he was ever awake in the first place). He tries to do the same.

 

"Mum,"

That's Roger's voice. Clear as day, albeit muffled by his pillow.

John stirs.

"Get out. Can't open the...it."

Roger whines, and the end of his words break off into a sob.

John brings his hand up to shake Roger's shoulder. He doesn't get a response, like the times before, and John finally understands - Roger is having a nightmare.

He suddenly feels like a complete idiot. And a bit of an asshole. How did he not know this before?

John eases up his grip on Roger's shoulder and brings it further down to his back, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades as best he can, given Roger is lying on his side.

"Can't do it," Roger says, and he sounds heartbroken.

It makes John feel the same.

"It's alright, Rog," He says. He moves forward so his forehead is pressing against the back of Roger's neck. It's intimate, but John doesn't read into it. He's comforting his friend.

Roger's next words come out garbled - little mumbled syllables that aren't anything John can make out, which he takes as a good sign. He's had nightmares before, but never experienced them from the other side. He doesn't know which is worse; having them, or watching someone have one.

Roger's body shudders beside him, inhaling a breath with more effort than should be necessary, and John's arm comes round to pull Roger to him automatically.

He can feel his breathing this way. His heartbeat under his palm.

He's hot to touch, the way he always is, but it's amplified under the double layers. John wonders if Roger has been sleeping cold all these nights, having only one quilt to himself. He might be able to afford one if he didn't keep buying so many clothes, but no-one was going to tell Roger that.

Slowly, he feels muscle relax under skin as Roger becomes pliant in his arms. John knows he could move away now, but he doesn't. He can't.

He tucks his head further into Roger's hair as best he can without it tickling his face, and breathes in time with the rise and fall of Roger's chest. He's quiet, which John takes to mean he's asleep this time - properly asleep. Then he realises that Roger always sleeps alone. That he has bad dreams, and wakes from them alone. That whatever was playing out in his mind would kick him from his sleep and leave him to sit in the dark until he could calm himself down enough to go back.

John had nightmares as a kid. About monsters and the old man down his road who looked at him funny, and meteors crashing into the earth. But that when when he was a child and shared a room with his mother, who'd always hold him when he woke up distressed and crying, or would rouse him to assure him she was there, and that he was safe, so she could send him off to sleep again knowing he wasn't alone.

He wonders how many nights Roger's woken up alone with Freddie still asleep or out of the flat, and had to convince himself he was alright.

The thought hurts, so he doesn't linger on it.

He lets Roger's back against his chest and heart beating against his arm serve as a lullaby, and tries to get some rest.

Roger doesn't wake again for the rest of the night.

 

-

 

In the morning, John wakes up alone.

He stretches out in space he has all to himself and closes his eyes for a bit longer, enjoying the slow wake-up.

He had a room alone at college, so he wasn’t often woken immediately, but he stayed up late studying, busting himself with one thing or another, so mornings were always a rush. Teeth, bag, shoes, out the door. He’d often skip breakfast and have a sandwich for lunch at the café on campus.

Stretching his fingers along the low-thread sheets on Roger’s bed, he notices it’s made up - rather badly, but made - on his ‘side’.

He doesn’t miss him - he’s slept alone his whole life, and alongside another person as many times as he can count on one hand. Waking up in a shared bed isn’t something he’s used to, and waking up next to Roger is something he’s tried very hard not to think about for a long time. It is a fantasy in his head, alongside getting married and having a home and a porch and someone to kiss and hold. He stores them in the ‘do not touch’ file, and only pries it open when he’s very drunk and very lonely.

 

Once he’s dressed - t-shirt, brown pants, white socks - he pads into the kitchen, headed straight for the pack of Marlboro’s he’d left on the table.

Freddie turns from the stove, eyes bright and clearly 100% more awake than John is. He’s always been a morning person.

"John! Good, you’re awake!” He says cheerily. “Would you like some eggs? We’re out of toast, but if I can manage to cook these they’ll fill us up enough, I reckon.”

John takes a cigarette out of the pack and pops it in his mouth. On the stove is a pot of boiling water, and a mess of white spinning around inside as Freddie stirs.

"Ehm, what’s this again?”

"Hard-boiled eggs. They’re just not boiling properly; I’ve got the heat all the way up! Must be the pot or something." Freddie fiddles with the knob of the burner, as if to show he really does have it on all the way.

John frowns. "Why’ve you taken the shells off, Fred?"

"Hm?”

"Well, you’ve cracked the eggs straight into the water. You’re meant to just pop them in with the shell on, and they cook inside of it. Then when they’re done, you peel the shell away and you’ve got a hard-boiled egg."

Freddie looks at him as if he’s just explained Plato’s allegory. He stares blankly for a good minute, then erupts, throwing the whisk into the sink.

"Well, bloody fuck! Those were the last of the eggs, too!" He crowded over the stove, putting his face right up to the pot. "Do you think they’re still eatable? They look eatable. Would you eat them, John?"

John sticks his cigarette under the pot, letting the stove burn at the end until he deems it lit, then moves it away. He takes a hard drag to make sure the end is burning, noting the way it’s been blackened by the licking flames, and passes it to Fred.

He takes it gladly.

 

Fred busies himself in the kitchen, turning the stove off and draining what he deems to be 'poached' eggs, puffing away at John’s cigarette like an old woman in her 50s, chain smoking and pottering around the house.

John lights himself another smoke, reclining in one of the dining room chairs, and gazes about the room.

"Roger’s at the stall," Freddie says from the sink. "I usually set up with him but I wanted to spend the morning with you."

John’s heart swells at the words.

Freddie has been his friend for less than a year, but he’s quite easily the best friend he’s ever had. He makes John feel like he actually wants him around, wants talk to him, but most of all wants to listen. It’s the reason they’re so close, John thinks. Freddie makes him feel like he can speak and be heard. He doesn’t get that from a lot of people.

"You sure you’re not needed?" He asks, ashing into the ornate tray.

"No, Rog will be fine for an hour. Doesn’t usually get busy ‘till around eight anyways. I’ll head over then.” Freddie says, then he turns to John.

"He talked about you this morning."

John pauses with his hand over the ashtray.

"Oh?"

Freddie grins.

"Yes, he told me he had a _great_ night’s sleep," He emphasises the word, dragging it out until John is sure he means something else by it.

He raises an eyebrow.

"He also said you snore." Freddie finishes, turning back to the finish drying off the pot he’d used.

John breaks out of his daze, bringing the smoke to his lips to take a quick drag.

"It's just sleeping, Fred."

"Yes, it was - I was keeping an ear out, but all I heard was Roger. No snoring from you or anything." Fred says, and John's ears perk up.

"You know about Roger's nightmare?"

Freddie finishes at the sink and joins John at the table, tossing the butt of his finished smoke into the pile of crushed ones in the tray.

"Nightmares. He's had them forever. Told me about them when we moved in together so I knew to leave him alone." Fred explains, pinching a cigarette out of his own packet with slender fingers.

John tilts his head to the side. "You don't go in?"

"Go in? No, I leave him be. Sometimes he'll have a bad one and talk through it, and I want to wake him up and make him some tea; but he's told me to just ignore him and try to sleep through them, so I do. You get used to it after a while."

John inspects the rim of the ashtray. The little details and patterns standing out on the glass. He thinks back to last night and tries to remember what Roger had said, but comes up blank. He flicks his eyes up to Freddie.

"Does he usually wake himself up?" He asks.

"I'd say so. I used to hear him in the kitchen in the middle of the night all the time, but I've learned to sleep through the crying - Oh, that sounds horrible when I say it. Anyway, if you want to know about Roger, you'd best ask Roger." Fred looks up at the clock, and sighs. "I've got to head off now, unless you want to tag along?"

John figures he has nothing better to do, so he nods.

"Right, get your boots on and we'll walk it. I cleaned the mud off for you." Freddie says, already heading to his own bedroom.

 

John stays at the table for a moment longer.

Surely Roger would've mentioned having nightmares to him before. Especially ones bad enough to wake him up regularly.

Thinking back on it, he can't recall it ever coming up. Roger never speaks about himself when they hang out, which is rare for them to do so without Fred. John feels a pang of guilt at that - he's known Roger almost the same amount of time as Freddie, yet he knows next to nothing about him compared to the compendium of knowledge and random facts he has on Freddie.

But then, Freddie is very open to the people he's close to.

Roger takes a while longer. Maybe they're not there yet.

 

Freddie re-emerges wearing an ornate black blazer with white stitching, forming patterns of blooming flowers across the entire thing. He tosses John's brown suede platforms over at his feet, and they hit the floorboards with a 'clomp'. John stubs out his smoke, zips his boots over his feet, and he's ready to go.

He spends the entire walk to the market thinking about how calm Roger seemed in his arms. The way he seemed to still at John's voice in his ear, talking to him, soothing him.

Should he not have done it?

How could he not have done it?

John lights a smoke, and pushes the thought from his mind

By the time they reach the marketplace, he's forgotten about it completely.

 

 

 

-

 

The reality of sharing a bed with Roger is brought to the forefront of his mind when he's woken, barely asleep to begin with, by Roger pushing himself into John's chest.

He stirs, moving to roll over but hitting his arm and head on the wall behind him. It startles him, pulling him from his sleep completely.

John reaches a hand out and finds Roger's hair, then his shoulder. He uses the heel of his palm to push him off, because if he was awake Roger would certainly not be cuddling with him like this, and it's not fair to tease him with something he wants while he's bloody asleep. John adds a little more force, and Roger rolls onto his back, then immediately curls into a ball on his side - thankfully his other side this time.

John lets out a heavy sigh.

He considers getting up to make a tea now that he's awake, but figures it'll only keep him up longer.

He goes to shuffle back into position, but Roger's back is jutting out into his space, with the wall offering no extra room. He could wake him, but doesn't want to disturb his sleep given last night.

That sentiment lasts around twenty minutes.

John's arm begins to ache from being pinned flat against his side, and he would go to the couch if there were any _bloody_ cushions, but there aren't.

So he decides to wake Roger.

 

John tries the good old 'shake the arm and they'll wake up' manoeuvre, but it doesn't work. He then digs into the back of Roger's legs with his toes and blows on his face.

"Rog. Roger, wake up."

As if by a miracle, Roger groans.

"What?"

He sounds dead to the world, but he's awake, and John leaps at it.

"Rog, I need you to move over."

Roger makes a noise.

"Come on, I'm pressed up against the wall and I can't sleep."

"Just sleep w' me,"

John frowns. "I am sleeping with you."

Roger brings a hand out of the quilt pile to grab at him from behind.

"Jus' sleep w' me. S'alright."

His hand finds John's shoulder and he pats it, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.

It registers then with John what he means.

"You mean...spoon you?" He says, and he shouldn't sound so shocked, because he's done it already. But this time he's being asked.

Roger hums, still tugging on his shirt.

John shifts forward, bringing his tingling arm up and under the pillow to rest on it. The other he brings around to tenderly rest on Roger's side.

Roger grabs it and pulls it down around him, curling in further until only the top of his head is visible.

John stays awake for a while, listening to Roger's breathing.

It seems Roger is doing the same, because he shifts in John's grip - not moving any closer or further away, but as if he's testing whether John will let him go.

He doesn't.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s to hoping I don’t butcher characterisation as this goes along.  
> I feel like a lot of people write Roger as having nightmares, but that isn’t going to stop me from taking it and running with it. You know I love a bit of hurt/comfort.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I love you!


	3. beast of burden

Freddie buys eggs on Sunday.

Cheap beer, potato powder, milk, bread, chicken if it's still half-off (John mentions that would be just 'off' by now), tea bags...

Freddie rattles off the list as John pushes the trolley, looking absently around the store at the other shoppers. At their shoes and bags, their hair, at the shelves and the things stacked on top of them. He could get a job as a shelf stacker. But then people might come up and start asking him about products, and he'd probably try to ignore them, be complained about, and subsequently fired.

His imaginary job was nice while it lasted.

 

Freddie tosses in some cornflakes, then darts his hand into the trolley to take it back out.

"No cornflakes this week, Fred?" John asks, amused.

Freddie looks down at his list.

"Not this week."

 

John smiles at the fastidiousness Freddie attaches to grocery shopping, of all things, but figures it's probably a good thing given their tight budget.

He looks back at the box of cornflakes placed back on the shelf.

"Maybe they could be for this week?"

Freddie looks up and frowns.

"I mean I could pay for some of the groceries, seeing as I'll be staying for a while," He says, then flushes. "I mean, not to extend my welcome or anything-"

"It's fine, darling, don't worry yourself," Freddie says, waving his hand - _no big deal_.

"Plus, you're not working at the minute, and I don't want you to use up your savings." He holds his list up and nods at it, making a little clicking noise. "Bread is at the end of the aisle."

John makes a face at the mention of his lack of employment, but pushes on.

"I want to do something, then. To help out. I don't want to feel like I'm leeching."

Freddie turns to him.

"You could never. Even if you aren't contributing to the rent, John, you're at home with me and Rog now, and it'll be your home until you're ready to go. Though I hope that won't be for some time. I love having you around." Freddie says, quashing John's uncertainties with just a few words. "We both do."

John mumbles a 'thanks, Fred,' and continues pushing the trolley down the aisle.

Fred leading him by holding the front, pulling it aside every now and then when another shopper walks by, their own trolleys much fuller than their own. They could bustle past, grabbing things off the shelves and stowing away without so much as a second glance at the price, or at John and Freddie themselves.

Freddie eyes these people, and John knows he wants to push the trolley right back out into their path.

"All these people will know who I am, one day." He says surely.

John believes him.

 

-

 

At home, John helps Roger unpack the groceries.

Does most of the unpacking, if he's honest. John doesn't know where most things go aside from the tea bags (next to the kettle) and the milk (fridge), so he stands back and watches as Roger takes over.

"Want me to do anything?" He offers.

He feels a little dumb just standing there, but thinks back to Freddie's words to him in the store, and it calms the jittering in his hands.

Roger's response does, too.

"Nah, mate. You could grab us a smoke if you feel like it? I forgot to tell you's to get some before you left."

John nods quickly. That he can do.

He pulls his pack out of his front pocket and takes one out, sticking it in his mouth to light it.

Then he pauses.

Roger is looking at him, eyeing John's mouth with a focus John's only seen on Roger's face a handful of times. None of those times had been directed at John.

John holds his eye as he brings his lighter up to his mouth, pressing down to ignite the flame.

He sucks in bring the heat into the tobacco, then takes the lighter away. He keeps it in his mouth a moment longer before he pinches it between his fingers, and gingerly hands it out to Roger.

He can see a tiny glint of his saliva around the end of the filter.

He watches Roger take it from him, eyes never leaving his own, and place it between his lips, bringing them together to inhale around it.

He moves the smoke away from his mouth with a dainty V of his fingers, holding it carefully as if it were something more than a $3,50 Marlboro Light.

John's eyes dart up from Roger's mouth and meet his gaze.

He's looking at him - just looking at him.

It's too intense, and it feels like they've done way more than simply exchange a cigarette.

 

John wants to say something.

Maybe do something stupid like tell Roger he's got the hots for him, in slightly better phrasing.

Tell him he wants to hang out more.

Tell him he can bum his smokes anytime.

Tell him he's been cuddling him at night and not mentioning it in the morning and ask him if it means anything.

 

Roger says, "Cheers,"

John nods. And that's that.

 

They break away from whatever 'moment' had just been happening with overeager movements, Roger going back to the bench to gather up the plastic bags and shove them in a bottom drawer, John going back to thinking of something to do other than stand around.

He watches Roger move about the kitchen and debates lighting a smoke. But he's had nearly his whole pack today entirely out of boredom, and isn't quite ready to go up to one and a half the way Roger is.

He watches, and realises he hasn't seen those pants on him before. Silky, purple, just shy of too long around the ankles.

"The stall!" John says suddenly.

Roger turns to him.

"What about it?"

John nearly waves his hands in excitement, but doesn't want to look daft, so he shoves them in his trouser pockets. "I can help with the stall."

Rog shakes his head. "You don't have to do that, John."

"But I'd like to."

"Well, I suppose you can come with me on Thursday - it's packed then for some reason. But if you feel like you need to, to contribute, or whatever-"

"Did Freddie talk to you?" John cuts in.

"What? No?"

John looks down at his feet. Of course Freddie hadn't told him what he said at the store. Why would he do that?

"Oh. Sorry. I just thought..."

"You are worried about it, then." Roger says, and John says nothing, because it's true.

He hears Roger sigh, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, resting there for a moment before he uses it to pull John into a full-bodied hug.

"I love you being here." He says into his hair.

John's heart aches in his chest at how sincere it sounds.

He doesn't open his mouth in case he says it back.

 

Roger pulls away, waving his hand to avoid burning John with his cigarette and tries to catch the ash as it flies off the end and onto the floorboards.

It doesn't work, of course, and just makes him look like he's interpretive dancing.

John stifles a giggle, and Roger looks up at him and grins.

"You like my moves?" He asks, throwing in a little foot shuffle for extra effect.

John nods enthusiastically.

"Oh, they're brilliant. You'll be bringing home all the girls with those."

He says it, and Roger's grin drops.

It's back up within a second, and he's joking, "I would've thought it'd be my looks that did that,"

So John ignores what he saw, and keeps running with the banter.

"Your looks? It's a good thing the club lights are so dark or else you'd have everyone running."

"So it's everyone now, huh? I'm giving the boys nightmares too?" Roger says, and it brings two very different responses to John's mind.

Both of which he wants to say - to ask about - but neither of which fit the current mood of the conversation.

He looks at Roger, still smiling, and doesn't remember the last time they spoke without Freddie in the room. Like he's some kind of propellor that keeps the conversation going. Which is definitely true, but it leaves gaps in conversations just between the two of them. When there's no big gestures or little jabs or offhand comments, John isn't sure how to move on from one thing to the next.

So he opens his mouth, and the words that come out are blunt and straight-forward.

"You have nightmares at night."

And shit, it isn't what he meant to say - not the angle he wanted to go down. But he can't take it back now, though watching Roger's face close off completely makes him want to.

"I mean that you wake me up. You speak, sometimes. And you cry." He says, but it only adds to the pain on Roger's face. He clicks his mouth shut and lets his teeth grind together.

"Well, I'm sorry I keep you up with my whining." Roger says tersely.

John's just glad he didn't say anything worse.

"It's not that- I'm not complaining. It's just that I asked Fred, and he-"

"You asked Fred? Why not just ask me yourself?"

"Because you hadn't mentioned it! And I didn't want to ask if you hadn't told me."

"That makes no fucking sense, John."

"I know. I'm sorry." He says lamely, and wonders if he's wrecked it all.

 

"I held you the other night," He says eventually.

Roger stares at him but says nothing, so he continues. "You were making these noises, and it woke me up, and at first I thought you were just, you know, being annoying. But then I noticed you were still asleep, and that you were upset, and I didn't know whether to wake you up or try and calm you down, so I just kind of- held you a bit."

There's a long pause before Roger speaks.

"Did it work?"

John nods.

"I fell asleep like that, and you were gone to the stall in the morning, so I just assumed you were fine with it," He says, and he knows he's getting dangerously close to a topic he’s told himself to avoid but he has to say it, "And then you asked me to sleep with you last night, but haven't mentioned it at all."

He bites his lip and feels the skin give between his teeth.

"I didn't want it to be weird?" Roger says. It's not a question, but it comes across like one.

"I don't think it's weird. Do you?" John asks.

Roger doesn't say yes. Or no.

Instead, he dodges the question entirely.

 

"They started when I was fifteen.” He says. "The night terrors - fancy name for a bad dream, really, but it’s what the doc called them. I was meant to have some, what’s it called- sleep test? But it was expensive, and my dad didn’t want to waste the money."

Roger looks away, so John shifts his gaze too.

"He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a top bloke." He finishes. Then he laughs - a bitter thing - and John wishes he'd kept his mouth shut.

"I tell Fred to ignore me when they happen 'cause it's not worth the hassle. If it's bad enough I wake myself up anyway."

"Would you like me to, too?" John asks quietly.

Surprisingly, Roger shakes his head.

"No, you're fine, John."

"I know it's harder because we're sharing, but I can-"

"I like it." Roger says.

John shuts up.

"I don't remember the nights, but I wake up and you're asleep wrapped all around me, and it's nice. Makes me feel...I don't know. Good."

Good. John can work with good. He can definitely work with good.

He thinks about it - about the few nights they've spent sharing - and cocks his head, a sly smile forming on his face.

"So last night when you pulled my arm around you- you don't remember that?"

Roger ducks his head so he doesn't have to look at John when he answers.

"I might."

The colour in his cheeks alone is enough of a tell.

 

-

 

Surprisingly, John isn't woken at all that night.

There's no wriggling from Roger, no space invasion, no nightmares.

He sleeps deeply and dreamlessly, curled around Roger with his head tucked into his shoulder.

 

-

 

Another two nights later, they have a routine down-pat.

Freddie has first shower, always, but after that the bathroom is free for the night. Roger showers while John has his last smoke for the night, then it's John's turn. He changes into his pyjamas and Roger smokes in bed - a habit John is sure is going to kill everyone in the building one day - then he crawls in, and takes his place with his back facing the wall and arms wrapped dutifully around Roger.

He has no idea, really, why he's the big spoon. He's taller, but not by much, and Roger's personality is so much bigger than his own. In any other situation, he's sure Roger would balk at being in the - typically - girl's position.

Maybe it's just him.

That thought gives him a warm feeling.

 

Roger's started talking to him at night, too.

Small things at first, but once he realises John is actually listening to him, he goes on. He tells him about his day, things he used to be afraid of as a child, a new song he likes.

Things he could say during the day, but didn't have a chance to.

It feels special.

A moment between just the two of them. Quiet, open, sleepily honest.

 

It's one of these nights - the eighth night John's been in the flat, to be exact - that Roger tells him he's not straight.

John had been expecting it. Wanting to ask about it, more to the point. But he never could form the sentence in a way that came out right in his head, and didn't trust his mouth to execute it correctly, so he never did.

He's glad he didn't.

John has the hand that's usually around his waist up by his shoulder, leaning on his upper arm, playing with his hair, and Roger just says it.

"I like guys too, you know."

It's so quiet it comes across as almost nervous.

John runs his hand through Roger's hair.

"So do I."

 

It should feel different, given John's feelings toward Roger, but it doesn't. He soothes any worries Roger might have about what he's just said with long fingers scratching lightly at his scalp, and they fall back into comfortable silence.

When he does eventually drift off, it's with his hand tangled in Roger's hair, other arm pinned awkwardly under his body.

He thinks he feels lips press against his forehead at one point - brief and feather-light - but he can't be sure. He's asleep before he can give it a second thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonsoir.  
> I wasn’t going to post this so soon but I just really wanted to get it out there - hope the frequent uploads aren’t too close together for you.
> 
> A lot of Freddie up till this point. But can you blame me? He writes himself.
> 
> How are you liking it so far? What are you looking forward to? Xx


	4. front door

"Oh, Rog! You're awake, good, good!"

Freddie's voice is like an airhorn in the room, waking John from a dream about driving the countryside in a car he can't afford.

 

He lifts his head up, finding Roger already sitting up, reading.

Freddie casts his eyes over to him.

"Oh, morning Deaky, forgot you were in here," He winks, and John groans. "You look comfortable. And tired. Long night?"

"Piss off, Fred," John says, though there's no bite behind it.

Freddie ignores him.

"Rog, would you please get up and finish fixing this door? I have a date tonight and he's _very_ fine, and I refuse to have someone come to pick me up and not be able to open the door."

"Why don't you just stand outside the door when it's time for him to come get you so he doesn't have to open it?" Roger supplies, not looking up from his book.

John smiles at that, shuffling up on the mattress so he's in a sitting position. He's shoulder to shoulder with Roger, but there's enough room for them to both sit comfortably.

"That does sound like a good idea, Fred," He agrees.

Freddie makes a 'harrumph' sound.

"You both can't gang up on me. It's not allowed. We all need to use the door, you know!"

"We do use the door. You've just got to hold the handle right and give it a bit of a shove and it opens fine," Roger says.

"That is not fine."

"Sounds fine to me."

"You just don't want to admit you couldn't fix the bloody thing and now you're trying to cover it up."

"I didn't not fix it, I started to fix it and then left it half-fixed. That's more fixed than it was before." Roger counters.

"Fuck off, Rog - you're not making sense and it's getting away from the point."

"Which is?"

"I have a date! And you're a lazy shit who's been spending all his time shacked up with John in bed instead of doing things like fixing the bloody door!" Freddie says, and storms out, slamming the door for good measure.

 

John sits awkwardly against the headboard, wondering if he should get up and go talk to him.

As if reading his mind, Roger bumps his shoulder.

"He doesn't mean it. He's been trying to land a date with this guy for a while. He's probably nervous. Don't worry about it, yeah?"

Usually, simple reassurances like that don't help John. It's a complex system his brain has set up - taking comfort and turning it into guilt. He'll listen to someone tell him it's alright, or that  whatever it is isn't his fault, and he'll still take whatever had been said and dwell on it for hours. He lets it fester into an anxiety that will last for days until it it's eventually cleared up by whoever said it in the first place. 

That doesn't happen with Roger.

He feels a hand squeeze his knee, pressure dulled by the two quilts, and his mind stops in its tracks.

"Yeah?" Roger insists.

John finds himself agreeing.

 

 

 

-

 

"Right, so you sit here, and this is my spot. All you’ve gotta do is sit and look pretty."

Roger gestures to a stool in the corner, behind a rack of silky, translucent shirts.

"Sit and look pretty?" John questions.

"Yeah. Won’t be hard for you," Roger winks at him. John brings a hand up to brush his front of his face as he feels it turn pink. It was embarrassing how red he turned when anyone payed him the slightest compliment.

With Roger, it’s much worse.

He must’ve noticed too, because he laughs, wrapping a hand around his wrist to move it away.

"Aw, don’t get shy, Deaks. Come on, let me see you," He tugs a little.

John groans, reluctantly letting his hand fall away from his face.

Roger coos at him like he would at a small child.

"There he is. We’ll be making double the sales with you around, angel face."

John raises his eyebrows at the nickname, but really, being around Freddie for so long he’s heard them all. He recalls being called a toaster at one point in time, though he can’t quite remember the context. Probably something about being warm and reliable. Though he does know Freddie recently had to toss out their toaster for nearly starting an electrical fire, so he’s not sure he’s too fond of being likened to that particular appliance.

Paying no mind to the look on his face, Roger grabs his shoulders, marches him back, and John falls bodily into the stool, nearly toppling backward. He’s caught by Roger’s fingers in his shirt, and he rights himself, giving a wordless thanks with a nod of his head.

"Oh, no problem Deaky," Roger exclaims loudly, "I’ll gladly save you from peril anytime, cause that’s the kind of gentleman I am."

John looks around, wondering who the hell he’s performing this stage play for, and sees Freddie making his way toward them.

Of course.

 

Freddie’s wearing some sort of feathered hat and canvas sneakers, grinning at them both.

"Good morning, Fred?" John questions, taking in Freddie’s jittery energy.

"Of course it is! Look at you, you fit right in! I might put a price tag on you and see how many offers we get." Fred says.

John isn’t sure his mere presence should garner such enthusiasm - or compliments - but he welcomes it nonetheless.

"Thats what I told him," Roger says, fiddling with their other clothes rack.

"Actually, he called me pretty."

Freddie’s mouth quirks up.

"Did he?"

"Said I had an angel face,"

Roger doesn’t look up from his work, but John can see he’s suppressing a smile.

"Gentleman." Is all he says.

A customer walks up and they cut the conversation off there, but Freddie shoots Roger sly looks the whole time he talks to her, and John knows there's something going on.

 

A flurry of schoolgirls arrive and spend a while touching absolutely everything they have at around ten past nine, which John takes as the time homegroup finishes and class begins. Which of course, they're not currently attending.

He watches them, wondering if they realise how obvious they are in their pleated knee skirts and T-bars.

Freddie has a more careful eye, making sure they don't spill their drinks on his clothes or try to nab any of the bit of jewellery they have up the front.

John wouldn't run it past them to try. He also wouldn't run it past Freddie to chase them down if they did.

The group leaves eventually, and when they do, Roger lets out a loud groan.

 "God, thought they'd never piss off!"

He lifts his arse up so he can grab his smokes out of his pocket and pulls one out, lighting it on the first try of the lighter.

John rolls his eyes.

"You'd like to hand-pick the market-goers, would you, Rog?"

"I bloody well would. Fifteen years olds with twenty P to their name aren't of any use, are they?"

"They're good for making us look busy."

"Good for getting in the way, more like," He grumbles, and sucks on the end of his cigarette.

Freddie walks over to him and plucks it out of his hand.

"You should really act more chipper, Rog. Maybe one of those girls had rich parents. They did go to St. Margaret's after all. Private school."

"They can afford to skip, that's for sure," John says, bitter they have a better schooling opportunity than he did and use it as a holiday.

Freddie runs his hand over the racks they'd flicked through.

"One of them was eyeing you, Deaky. Probably thought you were hot." Freddie says, and John splutters.

"What? Why would you- How do you know?"

"I know when someone's making eyes at someone else. It's how I pick up so many good ones when I go out."

John looks over at Roger, who's grinning at him.

"Shut up, Roger."

"Told you people'd like you."

He sounds far too pleased with himself.

John crosses his leg over his other and hunches over, subconsciously making himself smaller.

"Well I wish they didn't."

Freddie turns his head.

"Even Rog?"

John flips him off.

"It's alright, Deaky, I wouldn't want to date him, either." Freddie consoles him by patting the toe of his boot.

John opens his mouth to correct him, then realises what he's about to say with Roger sitting _right there_. He snaps it shut, bringing a hand to brush his hair out and over his cheeks.

Freddie grins at him, because he knows he's the cat to John's mouse in this situation.

They hold each other's eye, John silently pleading with him to drop the teasing for at least the next five minutes so he can come up with some completely unrelated conversation topic and attempt to transition into it.

Freddie just keeps on smiling, flicking his eyes over to Roger.

"However, if you think very hard, for a very long time, one might come up with some redeeming qualities for Roger."

"Oi!"

"He's not as good looking as me, of course, but he is quite...pretty, I'd say." Freddie says, studying Roger's face. "Quite feminine."

"Don't start again with the female bone structure!" Roger warns, pointing a finger at him.

"It was a valid point! Plus, it's not a bad thing. I'm sure you've brought in a few who've started on you thinking you're a girl."

"Seriously, Fred, shut up."

"Which, again, isn't a bad thing! The hair doesn't help."

Roger runs a hand through the ends of his blonde locks, the way John does when he's half-asleep - though John is much, much gentler.

John watches him flick his hair over his shoulder - dramatic, but not actually angry.

Roger catches him looking and narrows his eyes.

John keeps eye contact.

"I like his hair."

 

Freddie's smile softens into a tender thing.

"'Course you do."

 

"Plus, you're forgetting the mop on your head. What prompted you to get _that_ fringe?" John continues, gesturing to the black strands that cover Freddie's forehead.

"All angling toward the jawline, darling." Freddie says, then reaches over and shoves Roger with his hand.

"Come on, Rog, you know I'm just talking shit. Deaky loves the way you look."

John isn't sure why he himself is specified, but it seems to do the trick.

Roger pulls his bravado back up over his shoulders and shrugs.

"'Course he does,"

There's a pause.

"Still not a bloody gentleman."

They erupt back into their heatless argument, going back and forth about 'what qualifies as gent behaviour, anyway'. John rolls his eyes and pulls out a smoke.

He puffs away, drowning out the banter, watching the crowd go past like a blur before his eyes.

It's easy to see how a day can drag on here on a quiet day.

He doesn't mind the sitting around, however. It's sitting with a place and a purpose, and that makes all the difference.

 

 

 

-

 

They get home at three, having made two decent sales and a few more than usual small ones.

Roger bumps past John and Freddie to get to the door, holding his key out in front of him as if to signify _he's_ going to be the one to let them in because _he's_ got the key. He sticks it into the slot, turns it, then grabs at the doorknob tightly and lifts up.

Then he rams his body forward, and the door cracks open.

John stands back, amused at both the display and the effort of getting the door open. Roger waves him in with a grand sweep of his arm.

"After you, Deaks," He says, bowing his head.

John doesn't get the chance to step through, because Freddie marches in before him with an over the top "Thank you, Roger! So nice to be invited in."

Roger stands.

"I tried."

"You did."

John walks over the threshold and turns to watch Roger slam the door shut once on the other side.

"I can hear you struggling!" Freddie calls from the kitchenette. "It's getting worse the longer you leave it!"

"Why don't you fix the bloody thing, then?" Roger retorts, running a hand along John's back as he passes him.

His skin shivers at the contact.

 

"I'm an artist, Roger." Is Freddie’s explanation, his head stuck in the back of the fridge. He re-emerges with a bottle of Coke John didn’t know they had, staring at Roger with a deliberately blank expression.

John pipes up.

"I could do it."

"Really?"

"Doesn't seem too hard." John shrugs. "I'm good with tools."

"Well, you seem to do fine with Roger."

Freddie laughs at himself, and it takes John a moment to realise at what.

When he does, he lets out a noise that's a mix between a laugh and a snort.

"Sorry, Rog," He says when he sees the look on Roger's face.

Roger just shakes his head. "I swear, the bullying I experience in this fuckin' flat,"

"What're you going to do, move out? Leaving me here all alone with John, with all the time in the world together?" Freddie says, raising his eyebrows.

Roger flomps onto the his favoured dining table seat. "Nah, I'll just kick you out and give John your room."

John looks at him. "What, I'm not a good roommate?"

"You're the best," Roger says sincerely. Then he turns to Freddie, and his volume turns back up.

"You, however, are a ponce who doesn't know how to use a screwdriver."

Freddie rolls his eyes.

"Go suck a dick, Rog."

Roger mock-mouths his words back at him.

"Well, I'm trying to, But my date won't be able to get through the fucking door!"

 

John holds his hand out, about ready to put his fist through the next door he sees with all the fuss that's being made about this one.

"Give me whatever tools you have and shut up, Fred."

 

 

The door, as it turns out, is missing a screw.

It had all six screws when Roger started adjusting it - so Freddie says - and is now down to five.

It shouldn't affect the hinges so much seeing as it's only one missing, but the others are loose as well, barely holding onto the wood, and the combination has caused the top hinge to be overworked and start to pull away from the frame.

All in all, it's fucked. But John can fix it.

Being young, poor, and not tradesmen, they don't have power tools, but he makes do with the few bits of metal they do have and manages to move the hinges up, tighten the top screws and have the door swinging properly.

When he tells Freddie he's finished, he practically bounds into his arms.

"Thank you, thank you, you wonderful man! I'll love and adore you until the end of time!" He exclaims, landing a kiss on the side of John's face.

John brushes it off with his sleeve. "Weren't you going to do that anyway?"

"Yes, but now I have a reason to."

"I'll add it to my resume then. It'll be there with my course title and the rest of the blank page."

Freddie smacks his arm.

"Along with tall and handsome, very smart, great lay..."

"Like you'd know, Fred!" Roger cuts in from his bedroom.

The door is wide open, Roger currently struggling into some tight trousers while still wet from his shower. Seems he doesn't want to miss out on any more of their thrilling conversation about doors.

"No, he wouldn't know." John says. He wants to add more to the statement, but doesn't.

Then Freddie announces he's going to make tea, and John tears his eyes away from Roger's back.

"Tea sounds great."

 

 

Freddie makes the pot strong, and they drink together in comfortable silence, sipping out of clean mugs and smoking with their free hands.

John looks between the both of them, off in their own worlds, peering into their teacups or out the far window, and feels a warmth spread through him at the simple, familiar domesticity. It's like he's at home.

 

 

 

-

 

At night, he showers for longer than he usually does.

He takes his time lathering the soap, dragging the cloth, rinsing his hair.

He watches himself dry in the mirror, and wonders what Roger'd see in his angles and legs and jut of his hipbones when compared to soft curves and smooth thighs. Things feel a lot different through layers of clothes.

Not that Roger's felt any part of him.

The towel tugs on his hair as he pulls it away from his head, and he winces.

He rolls some deodorant under his arms, hangs his towel up on the rack, and takes his toothbrush out of the shower. He'd say he brushes in the shower to be efficient, but really, it spurred out of laziness, and using his time as efficiently as possible.

He also didn't have to pay for water at the college, though the showers were communal.

It's much nicer having a private one.

 

John emerges from the bathroom with clean hair and lingering anxiety, which slowly dissipates once he sees Roger in his usual spot, sitting with the covers over his legs, finishing the last of his cigarette.

He smiles, and John returns it.

Roger pats the bed beside him, already pulling at the quilt to make room for him.

"You took your time."

John reaches for his shirt and shorts - the same ones out of the rotating few he has, seeing as he hasn't gotten around to picking up the rest of his clothes from the college storage yet. He'll do it, eventually. Once he admits he's embarrassed to show up there alone, and forces Freddie or Roger along with him.

He turns to pull his pyjamas on under his towel, and for the first time wonders why he doesn't just get changed in the bathroom. It'd be odd to start doing it now, he thinks, and lets his towel drop once the waistband of his yellow shorts snap over his hips.

"Didn't realise you were waiting,"

He turns around, shirt still in his hands, and notices Roger looking at him.

"You right?"

"Yeah, actually," Roger says, bringing his arms up behind his head.

"You're such a perv."

"You're the one shirtless in my bedroom."

John bites his lip, because -  _true_.

He pulls his shirt over his head and tugs his arms through, then holds them out, turning in a circle so Roger can see he's dressed.

"I think you're meant to do the spin while you take your clothes _off_ , Deaks," Roger says as John is crawling onto the bed, and John wants to hit him with a pillow.

He reaches for his own, but Roger snatches it away before he can get to it. Then he brings it down on John's head.

"Insubordination! I'll have you expelled!" He says loudly, lifting the pillow up to whack him a second time.

John falls forward onto the bed to avoid being hit again, his face pressed into the mattress. He lifts his head to speak, but Roger uses the opportunity to push the pillow into his face.

"Roger-Ow!-What are you on about?"

"I'm taking control of my room, that's what. I've got naked blokes wandering around, people doing strip teases, all kinds of shit." He says, grinning. He pulls the pillow away. "Know anything about that, John?"

"No, I have no idea. It's not my business who you have in your room, to be honest."

"Well, you'd know if there were anyone else in here." Roger says.

John feels a hand on his head, resting there like a dead weight. He's just thankful it isn't the pillow again.

"I don't see anyone else here."

John rolls, knocking Roger's hand off as he does, and starts to arrange himself so he's under the covers.

"No, so you shouldn't," He huffs, laying his head down on the bare mattress.

"Why not?"

"Because I’m here, aren’t I? Can I have my pillow back now?"

He doesn't hear a reply, so he turns his head so he can see Roger - still sitting up, cigarette butt discarded, a funny smile on his face.

"What?"

Roger shrugs. "Nothing. Just interesting, that's all."

John lets out a sigh, moving so he's flat on his back, looking straight up at the ceiling.

"Do I have to enquire as to what's interesting in order to get my pillow back?"

"Nah."

Roger tightens his grip on John's pillow, holds it up, and brings it down smack on John's face.

John swears at him. Then punches him in the arm.

Roger laughs through an 'ow', stretching his arm out. "Bastard."

"Child."

 

Roger smiles.

It's something John will never not love seeing.

He turns on his side so he's facing him, and tugs at the corner of his pillowcase. Roger lets go.

Once he has it tucked firmly under his head, John pulls his arm up and under it, the way he does every night. His hair is splayed out, still slightly damp, and the strands leave wet marks on the white cotton when he moves his head. It smells like conditioner and skin and cigarette smoke.

He looks up at Roger, who's still sitting up, staring at the far wall. Maybe the door. Whatever it is, it's nothing special. But who knows what's going on in the kaleidoscope that is Roger's brain.

John brings his other arm to tug at Roger's sleeve this time.

"What're you doing?"

Roger turns to him, eyes a little glazed over.

"Just thinking."

"Well, stop it. I wanna go to bed."

"You are in bed," Roger says, but he turns to switch the lamp off anyway.

"You know what I mean." John says, not wanting to have to explain.

As Roger shifts downward, wriggling himself automatically into the concave of John's body, he finds he doesn't have to.

 

They lie for a while, not quite as tucked together as they are when they're more or less asleep, but comfortable nonetheless. John plays with the ends of Roger's hair, and Roger hums the tune to a blues song John doesn't recognise.

It's nice.

It's also scary how quickly this has become the new normal. How close John lets Roger get without a second thought. How he comes to expect the extra touches and pokes and hugs Roger's been giving him during the day. Come to like it.

John stills his hand in his hair.

"Hey, Rog?"

Roger hums.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He shifts a little so he can look at John, though it's difficult given their position.

"Yeah, 'course,"

John pauses, constructing and deconstructing his sentences over in his head to try and find one that works. None of them really do.

"I can hear you thinking," Roger says after a while.

John bites his lip. Alright.

"I was going to ask - Have you ever, you know..."

"Stolen Freddie's shoes and hidden them in the top cupboard for a laugh?"

"Been with a bloke before."

John finishes, and Roger just lets out a small 'oh'.

Then he goes silent, and John wonders if he's actually going to answer, or if he's doing a typical Roger move and ignoring the question (or problem) until it goes away.

He does answer, eventually.

"No." He says.

John nods to himself.

"Me neither."

 

They fall back into before's silence, but John can't help but feel he's changed it somehow. Tainted it.

Then Roger nudges his head backward into his hand, and the thought is pushed from his mind, replaced with the task of tracing patterns in Roger's scalp.

They fall asleep together, completely at peace.

 

 

 

 

-

 

John wakes up to screaming.

 

The pitch black of the room rushes into John's eyes as they shoot open, his heart beating impossibly fast against his chest. There's a ringing noise in his ear and someone is yelling, high pitched and panicked. He scrambles upright, trying to get away from whatever is in his room. Then he realises it's Roger.

He reaches an arm across, finding some part of him, and he clutches at it. His fingers come across a back, shoulder, arm, and John pulls him, cradling Roger into him like a child.

He doesn't even know if he's asleep or awake.

John doesn't know if he's awake himself.

"It's alright, Rog. You're safe. You're with me, in bed. Everything's alright." He says, voice gentle and steady.

Roger is limp against him, but he moves, which tells John he was either awake before or he's just woken up. A hand comes around his upper arm in a vice grip, and Roger's body begins to shake against him.

"John? John! John, help, I can't- C-Can't get out of the f-fucking room, John, please-"

 

He's hysterical.

Roger grabs blindly at him, and John knows he should try and turn the lamp so Roger can see where he is, but he doesn't dare let him go yet.

"Rog, I'm here, I'm right here,"

He winces at the fingers digging into his skin, repeating himself over and over.

"You're not in the bathroom, you're with me. I've got you. You're alright. You're alright. You're alright."

Roger wails, and John suddenly remembers Freddie is out, which is why he's alone in the room. If he were home, he would most definitely be awake by now. He'd be in here, telling John what to do, how to fix it, even if he doesn't know himself.

Roger starts babbling, and John feels so hopelessly lost.

"I thought she was dead, John- She was dead, she looked dead, I thought she was d-e-ad-" He breaks off into a shuddering sob, body heaving with the force of it.

John can feel his tears where they've soaked into his shirt. His own might be mixed in with them, too.

"She's fine, Rog. She's okay." John says, not knowing for sure but having a firm idea of who he's talking about.

"I'm sorry," Roger says.

Somehow, John knows its not aimed at him.

 

Roger's breathing is still over the top, but the shaking has stopped, which is progress. John recalls the first nightmare Roger had - the first one he was present for - and realises that was nothing compared to this. Roger's grip hasn't let up on his arm, and it's starting to ache. The pain only adds to the pure anguish John is feeling right now. Though he knows Roger is having it much, much worse.

He doesn't know what to do.

So he does the only thing he can think of, and presses his face firmly into the crown of his friend's head.

"I love you. I love you, Freddie loves you; you're so loved, Roger. Whatever happened wasn't your fault. Whatever it was, it's okay now. You're here with me, in your very small bed, and I'm gonna stay here with you until you feel alright, okay?"

His words are soft and insistent and entirely true.

Absently, he feels Roger nodding against his chest.

He's calming, slowly, making no noise but the hitch of his breath every now and then. The hand around his arm lets go. John chases it with his own.

"Rog?"

"Please, don't," Roger says. He sounds as tired as John feels.

"Are you okay?"

Roger brushes his hand away.

"Don't wanna talk about it. Please. Not now."

John nods, though Roger can't see it. "Okay. Okay,"

He starts to lie down, slowly, and Roger goes with him, face turned toward John rather than away. Once they're horizontal, he tucks himself into John's chest and digs his head under his chin until he's close enough to steal the air out of John's lungs.

John lets him do it.

 

Roger falls asleep with his breath still catching on itself.

He has arm tucked between their bodies with his hand against John's chest, as if he made to push him away and never got that far. Given the position, John wonders if Roger was feeling his heartbeat.

John doesn't get back to sleep that night. His thoughts are running on a figure eight track in his head, looping the same few notions over and over.

 _I love you_ _\- I'm sorry_ _\- John, help_ _\- She's dead -_ _No -_ _Me neither_

 

He seems to lay there for hours, trying to calm himself at the feel of the warm weight in his arms, and failing.

He hears Freddie get home, and knows it's either very late or very early. Either way, he's not going back to sleep, so he extricates himself from Roger's grip, thankful he sleeps like he's unconscious, and pads out into the lounge.

Freddie is taking his shoes off in the dark. He fumbles with the zipper of one of his ankle boots, then kicks it with his other foot, cursing under his breath.

John looks up at the clock.

6:01am.

"Hey, Fred," He whispers.

Freddie looks up, startled, then smiles.

"Good morning, Deaky,"

John has his reply ready on his tongue, but the sight of his friend has his throat closing over all at once. 

"Fred," He croaks out, suddenly feeling like he's about to cry.

When Freddie comes forward and wraps his arms around him, he does.

Freddie doesn't even ask what's wrong. Just says, "It's alright. It'll be fine. He'll be fine."

Somehow, it fits.

 

Eventually Freddie pulls away, and John is horrified when his hands brush under his eyes and come away wet.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

That shakes John out of his funk, and he shakes his head.

"No. No, Fred- How was your night? You're home early."

If Freddie sees the distraction for what it is, he doesn't comment on it.

He finishes with his shoes and gathers them up into his arms - he's never liked keeping them by the door as it 'makes the place look like a truck stop' - and sighs.

"He was lovely, and sweet, and very handsome, but things got quite boring once we finished dancing. We went back to his place after, but...Let's just say he should keep his bed for sleeping."

John laughs, and it makes Freddie smile.

"Took you till six to realise?"

"Well I had to have a bit of a nap, John. How else would I have gotten back here? I don't just stand around when on the dancefloor, you know that. My feet were tired." Freddie holds up his shoes as if there are going to be tears and black rubber scuffs from his hardcore dancing all over them.

"Why didn't you take the bus?"

"I did! They don't start running till six. I caught the one by the Sainsbury stop a fair way up." Freddie waves his hand as if that'll help John know where exactly he's talking about.

John says "Yeah," having never caught a bus from that stop, or that line.

"You headed to bed, then?"

Freddie nods.

"You're making tea for you and Roger?" Freddie asks, motioning to the entrance of the short corridor.

John frowns.

He turns, and notices Roger is standing just outside his bedroom door, looking very tired and very confused. His eyes are trained on John, not so much as casting a glance in Freddie's direction.

Maybe he's sleepwalking, John thinks for one dumb moment. Then Roger speaks.

"John."

Freddie looks between them. "Well, I'm going to bed. G'night, John. Morning, Roger."

Roger waves him off as he makes his way past to get to his neighbouring bedroom. Once the door is clicked shut, Roger moves, dragging his feet into the kitchen and leaning back against the bench.

John remains where he is, cold in some short shorts in the middle of the room.

Roger flicks his head.

"Come 'ere,"

John doesn't know whether he means to him, or to the bench, or if that's code for 'can you please make me a cup of tea', but he goes.

He stands in front of his friend, only noticing now how dark the bags under his eyes are. How his lids take longer to open and close when he blinks because they're still swollen from crying, even after a few hours' sleep.

Roger pulls him in for a hug, and John goes down willingly.

"I have a headache." He admits.

"You were crying for a while," John says as way of explanation, though he knows it's not very comforting.

"I know. I was awake," Roger says, and he pulls away.

John stays with his feet between Roger's own, where he's kicked them out away from the bench. Like he's bracketing him in.

"Yeah," Is all he can say in response.

 

"You’re upset." Roger says suddenly.

John wipes his hand under his eyes, though they're no longer wet.

"Oh, yeah, um. I was, I suppose."

"You’re okay now, though?"

"Yeah, I’m okay."

Roger slides his hand up John’s arm, and it’s like he already knows what John is upset about, the way he rubs his hand under his shirt sleeve and says nothing about it.

John leans forward until his forehead is resting on Roger’s collarbone. He doesn’t know why he does it, but it feels right.

Roger’s over hand skims up his back, dancing lightly over the bumps of his spine.

"Are you?"

He can feel Roger nod.

"Had a really bad dream, Deaks."

John knows not to ask about it. He just lets Roger move his hands over his back like he’s playing an instrument and keeps still. His head moves up and down with Roger’s inhale/exhale.

"But I’m okay. Thank you," Roger whispers.

His hand reaches the side of John’s neck, and when he looks up it slips easily to cradle his head. It’s an intimate gesture, but one he’s had done to him by his mother many times over, when she’s telling him she’s proud or disappointed, or anything she wants him to listen to with his eyes.

Roger doesn’t say any of these things, and his eyes are hooded and focusing on his face but not his eyes. It makes the difference all too clear for John, and he steps back.

It’s a clean break apart.

It’s panic.

 

Roger moves his arms, bringing them to cross in front of his chest, and John moves away, grabbing the kettle from the stove and walking with it to the sink. Roger shifts so he can get to it properly.

"We going to ignore that?" He says breezily.

John shoves the lid on the pot and sets it down on the stove.

"It’s nothing, Rog."

Roger snorts, a loud, sudden thing.

"What?" John snaps, frustrated by the sudden change of atmosphere. He's always known Roger is temperamental, but living with him is consistent mood whiplash.

Roger presses his lips together and looks away.

"You say a lot of things when you’re trying to calm me down."

John strikes a match. Lights the burner. Hopes maybe it’ll catch him on fire.

"Thought you didn’t remember."

"That’s when I’m still sleeping. I was awake, tonight. Today. Fucking, whatever - You know what I’m talking about."

"No, I don’t, Rog. I’m making tea. Are you gonna have one, or not?"

He looks over his shoulder, and Roger is glaring at him. He shakes his head.

"Fine."

 

John doesn’t know what it is about Roger that has him wanting to run to him and away from him all at once. He supposes it’s his nerves. Or his crippling anxiety of doing something to upset the only good people he has in his life. He isn’t sure what he’ll do with himself if he manages to lose Roger or Freddie. He doesn’t think he can survive this life alone.

Most of all, its the persistent fear of being rejected. The same fear he pushes down under any other insecurity - hiding it from himself morso than others.

Any interest Roger shows passes through a stilted lens, and John knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from believing the result once it reaches him. What returns is awkward and friendly, nothing more. It doesn’t matter how John feels.

 

Roger pushes away from the bench and out of John’s line of sight.

Seconds later, he hears the telltale click of a lighter, and the smell of burning tobacco fills the kitchen.

John turns the heat up on the kettle and waits.

"Can I ask you something, John?"

Roger’s voice comes from beside him, most likely from the smoking table.

He sighs. Wants to say no, the conversation is done, let it be so.

"Yeah, go on."

Roger pauses, probably to take a drag of his smoke.

"How come you asked me if I’d ever shagged a bloke before?"

John crinkles his nose at the crude wording.

"I was just curious." He says, and wonders himself if it's true.

Roger hums.

John rounds on him, nearly taking the kettle with him as his hand is still grasping the handle. He lets go in the last second.

"Why do you do that? The fucking ‘hm’ noise? Makes me feel like you’re gathering information rather than having a conversation with me."

Roger flicks the end of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Might not have to if you’d just tell me shit."

"What is that even supposed to mean, Roger?" John wants to run a hand over his face, but his hands are sweaty, and he isn't that dramatic.

"Well, for starters, you always give me this look like you’re going to say something, and you never do, and I know there’s no point asking about it because you’re you, and you’re never going tell if I ask. And then there’s what we do when we’re in bed, which is great and comfortable and really very sweet. But once we get up things are back to...This."

It’s then that John realises Roger isn’t mad at him. He’s upset.

He taps his fingers against his side, contemplating whether to join Roger at the table.

“Is that a bad thing?" He asks.

He can hear the force of Roger’s exhale.

"I don’t know! I just know that you let Freddie hug you and kiss you and all that shit. And you do it back. Why not to me?”

"Well, you’re not exactly as touchy as Fred is. I don’t know anybody that is." John says.

"S'not the point."

"What is the point then, Roger?"

Roger makes another noise, and John thinks he sounds decidedly young. Young and unsure of how to say what he’s thinking, or what he’s feeling. Older, but still a child.

John glances once more at the kettle, bubbling loudly on the stove, then walks over to pull a chair out at the table. He makes a point of meeting Roger’s eyes.

"We’re friends. You’re my best friend. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m treating you different.” John tells him, apologetic.

Roger shakes his head. "It _is_ different, though. With you, I mean."

John goes quiet, and Roger breaks his gaze.

He leans against the back of the chair and tilts his head back, exhaling smoke from his lungs in a heavy breath up at the ceiling. When he rights himself, he looks at John with his eyes wide and sincere.

"I'd like it to be different."

 

He says it, and John can’t get a sentence to form in his head if he tried.

He blinks, mouth open, watching Roger as he slowly shrinks under his gaze.

Then the whistle of the kettle erupts, ten times louder than it usually is, and John is brought out of his stupor.

"I'd better get that," He says, and doesn’t move.

Roger’s eyes flick down, then back up to his eyes. "Yeah."

He stands the same time John does, and there’s a hand grabbing at his shirt as he leans over the table, tilting his head in toward Roger’s face.

His lips miss their target - skimming across the side of Roger’s nose, missing his mouth completely.

Roger chases it, moving his head slightly so his bottom lip slides between John’s own. Then he presses in, and he’s kissing him, John realises. This is a kiss.

He parts his lips so he can pull back and press his mouth against Roger’s again, heart jumping when he feels Roger return it, pushing insistent little kisses into his mouth. 

Roger tightens his grip in John’s shirt, then lets it go.

He pulls away before John can register what just happened.

 

Slowly, he straightens, blinking dumbly up at Roger, absent fingers coming to touch at his mouth and stopping halfway.

Roger is grinning at him, his smile wide and dopey.

”Knew it.” He says, seemingly to himself.

Before John can ask what, there’s a door slamming in the hallway. He breaks his gaze away from Roger’s mouth to see Freddie storm into the room, covered in a gown and slippers.

He storms in, banging his hand over the light switch as he passes it, flooding the room in yellow light.

"Don't you two idiots know what a fucking whistle on a kettle means?!" He demands, switching the burner off with a flick of his wrist.

"It means turn the fucking heat off! You’re going to kill us all one day, I swear, Roger!"

Roger’s heart-eyes turn to a frown.

"Why me? John was the one making tea."

"It’s always you, Rog." Freddie says.

John is grateful his voice has lost some of its fury. Freddie can be quite the force when he’s angry, and he isn’t quite awake enough to handle it. He’s still ditzy from the kiss, if he’s honest. Burning down the building complex is the furthest thing from his mind.

Roger seems to have recovered quicker than he has, and he sits down easily, pointing at Freddie.

"I take it your date didn’t go well,"

"Fuck my date!" Freddie shouts, slamming the kettle into the back plate of the stove.

"Yeah, well, obviously,"

"Fuck you as well, Roger!"

Roger giggles, eyeing John with a pleased look on his face. "Nah thanks, mate."

John gives him a shy smile, darting his tongue out over his bottom lip.

Freddie seems to catch their exchange, because his eyes narrow. "What were you two doing before I came in?"

Roger open his mouth, so John rushes to talk over him.

"Fucking."

"Making tea!"

Freddie raises his eyebrows.

"Making fucking tea." John amends.

Then he bursts out laughing.

 

There’s a beat where Freddie just stares at him like he’s gone insane, but his face cracks into a smile soon enough. Roger eyes them both with his eyebrows raised. The sight only makes John laugh harder.

He doubles over the table, cackling like an idiot because he’s just _happy_ , and it isn’t that funny, it’s hilarious. The elation he’s feeling bubbles out all at once in the form of uncontrollable giggles.

He sits up, shoulders still bouncing up and down.

Roger is watching him, the softest look on his face. It’s something John hasn’t seen before, at least not on Roger.

It’s... John doesn’t want to select the word that comes to mind, so he settles for _adoring_.

"You bastards, honestly - You have to act all sweet the very night I have the worst shag of my life." Freddie says petulantly.

The words send John straight back into another fit of giggles.

This time, Roger joins him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to actually make a messy timeline of all the days that had passed because I had no idea what day it was!  
> For anyone curious, John moved in on Wednesday the 9th of an undecided month, and today is Thursday the 17th.
> 
> This is really quite messy and doesn't flow as well as I'd like it to, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading & saying hi


	5. half four

John figures he should mention it.

It hasn’t come up at all since he moved in, and by now he wouldn’t be surprised if they've forgotten.

Its awkward, considering the circumstance. He doesn’t want to come across as pushy, or invasive. But it’s been nearly two weeks, and he’s running thin on excuses.

So he waits until they're mid-game, playing Scrabble on Freddie’s good rug laid out over the lounge room floor, and says it.

"I think it’s time to get my stuff from storage."

 

Freddie lets out a curse.

John looks at him, about to tell him it’s not that big a deal, but then notices his eyes are intensely focused on the seven letters he has in front of him.

He’s completely oblivious to the fact that John’s just spoken.

"Hey, that’s not a word!" Roger shouts, pointing an accusing finger at the tiles Freddie is currently putting down.

John sighs.

"Guys,"

"It’s a fucking word, Roger, get a dictionary." Freddie says, continuing to place them down.

Roger’s face twists up. "I don't need a dictionary, I went to primary school, and I know that’s not a bloody word!"

John peers over at the board, tilting his head sideways to see what Freddie has put down.

He’s adjoined three tiles to his word, which he attached to Roger’s. The combination doesn’t work, and he agrees; it’s not a word.

He presses on.

"It’s been a few weeks, and I’m kind of missing my tech stuff, to be honest."

"What are you on about, Deaky?" Roger says, eyes unmoving from the board.

Roger is lying on his front, legs kicked up in the air, head resting on his hands. He looks like the little girl in that 'waiting for the telephone' advert.

"My stuff," John repeats. "In storage."

He makes an 'ah' noise, which tells John he isn’t listening at all.

"Freddie, I swear to God, put those fucking tiles back."

John looks across, and Freddie is sitting up with his legs crossed, straight-backed and very pleased with himself.

"No."

"Freddie, that is not a fucking word, and you’re ruining the momentum of the game." Roger says. Then he turns to John, eyebrows raised. "What was that again?"

John shakes his head. It can wait.

 

Freddie moves to pick up the pen and pad that keeps their scores, and Roger leaps to his feet.

"Do not even think about writing that down!"

"Why not? It’s a good score." Freddie holds the pen up to the paper.

"Deaky, back me up. He can't do this. It’ll be two against one." Roger pleads.

"If I do, will you actually listen to me after?” John asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, anything!"

John hums.

He looks down at the board. Roger’s word was 'shelf' for eleven points, to the end of which John had added U-N-C-T-I-O-N, running diagonally across the board. Not the best letters, but the length made it alright.

Freddie, in his wisdom, decided to add to it.

John looks down at the three tiles he’s placed down in front of his perfectly legal word, meticulously in line with the square borders, and makes a face.

"Confunction isn’t a word."

Freddie rolls his eyes until they’re near invisible behind his eyelids.

"Am I living in 10th century England where the English language is still primeval? Confunction is to confunct." He says, as though that makes any sense.

"And that’s in the dictionary, is it?" Roger demands. 

"Yes."

"What dictionary would that be, Fred? ‘Cause I sure as shit have never seen it before.”

"Its in the fairy dictionary only us mad queers can read - might be why you haven’t seen it." Freddie remarks.

"What, half queer isn’t enough?"

"Definitely not - you’ve got to go all the way. Jump right off the deep end into the fag pool." Freddie says with a flourish of his hand.

Roger makes a face. "No thank you."

John’s laugh falters.

He has it back again within the next second, but by the way Roger’s eyes are trained on the side of his face, he knows he wasn’t fast enough.

Roger looks at him like he’s about to say something - or, god forbid, apologise, so John turns to Freddie and puts a hand over his heart in false shock.

"Fred! There was a dictionary all this time and you didn’t tell me?"

It’s over the top, and not how he would ever usually act, but he’s not ready to hear Roger backtrack for his sake, so he puts it on. Thankfully, it seems to amuse Freddie.

He grins.

"Well, Deaks, I did doubt you for a while. You’re quite the wallflower. It leaves a lot of room for assumptions."

 _Yeah,_ John thinks. _No shit._

"I suppose if it’s two against one I'll have to go by majority rules - but I want another turn, and a free pick of the bag." Freddie relents.

John looks over to Roger - _your decision._

Roger’s face has hardened, though, and the angry humour he had before has turned sour.

"Keep it, get rid of it - I’m going for a smoke."

Then he ups and leaves.

 

Freddie looks up, perplexed, as the front door opens and close with Roger on the other side. No slamming required.

"Fuck this," John mutters, getting to his feet. "I'll be back, Fred."

He follows Roger out of the flat, feeling Fred’s eyes on him the entire time. 

 

He catches him on the first stairwell.

"Hey!" He shouts.

Roger’s feet stop on the second stair.

John can see fresh tears already threatening to spill under his eyes.

"What the fuck was that?" He demands.

"I’m going for a smoke, Deaks." Roger says indignantly.

John shakes his head.

"No you’re not. We’re not idiots, Roger. Are you pissed off, or are you sorry? Because you have no reason to be either of these things."

"I'm _not_ either of those things. I just want a breather."

John wants to yell at him. Tell him he's being a fucking idiot and to get back inside - but he won't. He sighs, running a hand through his long hair.

"Rog, what's going on? I know you, and you're not this dramatic." John says, then rethinks it. "Actually, you're quite dramatic, but this is a five part opera you're doing."

Roger turns his head to the side. "Am not."

John takes the few extra steps to get into Roger's space, and daringly reaches a hand out, cradling Roger's jaw and turning it to face him.

Roger's eyes are wide when they meet his.

"Talk to me," John pleads. He keeps his hand where it is, mimicking the way Roger held him a few nights ago. His thumb rubs little circles into Roger's cheek, just below his ear.

Roger just...looks at him. His eyes flick back and forth between John's own, big and blue and emoting so much John can't begin to process it all. He looks sorry, and hopeful, and for a moment John wonders if he's waiting for him to do something. Whatever Roger is expecting, he doesn't do it, but he doesn't pull away this time. Maybe that was all he wanted.

"Come for a smoke? Please?" He says quietly.

John wants to lean his forehead against Roger's - to be close to him; hear his thoughts, perhaps - but they're in the hallway still, and he doesn't particularly want a black eye if anyone were to oppose the simple display of affection. He moves his hand from Roger's face and finds Roger chases it immediately with his own.

"Rog," He warns.

Roger twists their fingers together anyway. "Just for a bit."

"I'm not..."  _Out. Ready. Sure._

"Just for a bit." Roger insists, and starts to tug John down the stairs. He goes.

 

 

They stand outside the building a metre apart and watch the people go by.

John finds the way they walk separates the busy, important people from the people like them. The ones with flares and long hair who drag their feet, carrying schoolbooks or takeaways or nothing at all.

The disappearing sun casts a yellow-orange glow over everything, dipping it in colour and making it just a little less dull - though nothing can make their particular street look nice. Even the people on it who try and dress so regal and put together. John wonders what they look like once they get home, away from the public eye. If they keep their suits and make-up on for dinner, make their kids sit up straight for no-one to see. They probably look the way he does now: tired and smoking in house slippers.

Except he's still outside, because Roger has decided he needs to finish his smoke before he says anything.

He handed one to John before he lit his own, so John didn't have too much time to complain, but he finishes his before Roger - like always - and has to wait. His foot kicked behind him against the wall in a trademark beatnik slouch.

Roger flicks his fingers out, and the end of husband cigarette goes sailing onto the road.

"That was a bit dramatic, wasn't it?" He says finally.

"A bit, yeah." John agrees.

"I don't mean to be."

The sun is behind him, which means it's shining directly onto Roger's face, covering him head to toe in a bright, warm glow. John has to admit the light is very flattering. But that's not what he's meant to be doing. Roger seems to catch him looking, however, because he ducks his head, hair falling over his face like a blonde curtain.

"You make it hard, you know." He says.

That piques John's interest.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I mean...You're always around. Sitting at the table, making tea, fixing doors and shit. You're in my bed every night." Roger looks up, but keeps his head turned. "Gets confusing, you know?"

John's fingers twitch, and he realises he finished his smoke a while ago.

"Yeah. But that doesn’t mean you have to storm out during Scrabble."

Roger groans.

"I'm sorry! I just...I said that dumb thing, and I know it upset you and usually I'm alright at fixing shit real quick but it’s you, and I panicked. Then I felt like a right dick, so I left."

"So you left," John repeats, trying to understand Roger’s thought process.

"I'm not good at this kind of shit, Deaks."

"What kind of shit? Losing at Scrabble or dealing with your emotions."

Roger cracks a smile. "Both."

John reaches out to smack his arm - a kind of detached touch male friends do that they’ve never really taken on board. It makes John think.

 

"Rog...You’re bi, right?"

Roger looks around, though there’s no-one near them to overhear. "Yeah."

John rolls his words around on his tongue.

"Are you afraid that being with m- With a guy is going to make you...gayer?"

It seems dumb to ask, but taking in Roger’s reaction, it seems he’s hit the nail right on the head.

"It's not that."

"But it is, isn't it?"

Roger doesn’t answer.

"It’s okay, you know. To be scared"

"How would you know? You’ve never even-" Roger cuts himself off.

John ignores the bite in his tone. "No, I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I had an easy time coming to terms with being..."

"Gay?" Roger finishes for him.

"Yeah." John breathes.

"How did you know, then?"

John goes to answer, then stops. Because he could say it was the girl he thought he had a crush on until he realised that wanting a friend is different to ‘like-liking’, or that it was the first boy he saw in high school who payed him any attention, or even Freddie’s unashamed openness. Because in the end, it was Roger himself.

The way they became firm friends, and a current in John buzzed under his skin, wanting more from it. Wanting what he saw in couples - straight couples, able to be out in the open, having dates and buying each other drinks at bars. It was seeing them, and wanting that label of normal, that made him realise he wasn’t.

That he was completely bent.

Roger must take his silence as a declination to answer, because he says, “You don’t have to tell me. I’m not sure how I knew, either. And I’m only, you know,”

"You’re not only anything, Roger. You are who you are. You don’t need to apologise for it."

"To them I do." Roger says, pointing out at the empty street.

John knows exactly what he means.

"Well...you don’t to me."

Roger finally - _finally_ \- meets his eye, and his expression is so fond John wants to pull him into a hug right then and there.

"Thanks, Deaky."

"No problem, Rog."

Roger shoulders off the wall. "You're a good mate, you know."

John thinks back to the night of Roger's nightmare, and their time in the kitchen. The feel of Roger's lips. The hand twisted in his shirt. The taste of cigarette smoke in his mouth.

"Yeah," He says. "You too."

 

 

 

 

-

 

Freddie isn't impressed.

He's pissed about the interruption of their first Scrabble game all together in the flat, and the fact that Roger acted like a, in his words, complete baby. Mostly, though, he's upset about the game stopping before he could win.

It drags on through the remainder of the afternoon. Through nighttime telly, and their post-dinner, pre-tea smoke.

He huffs about and bangs the cupboard doors when he shuts them, deliberately moves too slow or too quickly to be in Roger's way so he can side-step and side-eye when Roger tells him to move.

"It was totally shit. It's just a bloody game, and you have to go and make it World War III."

It's Freddie's turn to make the tea, but he's refused to get out of his chair, too busy banging on about his abandonment, so John takes it upon himself.

Teapot, kettle, tea-bags. Simple stuff.

It takes him ages with the amount of turning around he has to do.

"And both of you - not just you, Roger - both of you went out and spend half a fucking hour outside!" He complains, picking at his fingernails.

Roger rolls his eyes, seated on the chair beside him. He hasn't lit his smoke yet, and John wonders if he's waiting for him. He turns back to the bench. The kettle's on, nearly ready to whistle. He takes it off before the noise can kick in, and pours the water into the pot. Throws two rounds in, turns back to the table.

"I don't think it was that long, Freddie." He says.

"Bloody felt like it. All over a fucking word."

"Confunction still isn't a fucking word." Roger says.

Freddie shakes his head.

"You keep thinking that, Rog. Then you'll get fucking confounded one day and you'll realise I'm right."

Roger purses his lips. "But Fred - confounded _is_ actually a word."

John is also fighting a smile, but says nothing in case Freddie turns his wrath on him. He's content with letting Roger cop it at the moment.

"Con-fuck you, Roger." Freddie snaps.

It sends them both into cackling laughter.

Eventually, Freddie joins in.

 

"Oh!" Roger says through a giggle. "John, you had something you wanted to say before, didn't you?"

John feels a little buzz at that, because he actually _remembered.  
_

"Yeah, I did."

Roger frowns. "What was it again?"

The 'buzz' turns into a simple thought of 'Roger, you're an idiot', but it's loving all the same.

"I was going to say that we should get the rest of my things from storage sometime soon. I mean I should. You guys can come, if you'd like."

 _Please come,_ he pleads internally.

Freddie stops his nail inspection and looks up. "Of course we'll come with you. You don't own much, right?"

John's face flushes, because no, he doesn't, but then neither do they. He hasn't got anyone he needs to impress. "Not really."

"Good - we can take some bags and catch the bus."

"Not like we could take the car if we wanted." Roger says glumly.

"We haven't got a car, Rog."

"Exactly my point."

"Either way," Freddie says, "We'll go with you, Deaky. It's open early on Mondays if you want to go tomorrow?"

John scrunches up his nose. "Wouldn't like to be coming back here in the mid-morning on the bus with hobo sacks."

"It won't be mid-morning! And it won't be with hobo sacks, either. We'll show up, grab your things, and take the bus with a few bags each like regular commuters."

Freddie tilts his head. "Actually, thinking about it now, there might be a few things that you could get rid of, if you like. Now that you’re here with us."

John clicks his tongue, ticking it over. "I suppose, yeah. But I really, honestly didn't have much in that room. There won’t be much to get rid of."

"Things like your little desk, or your gas heater?"

"That isn’t worth much, though."

"I'm sure someone will want to but it for a few quid, at least."  Roger offers

"Alright."

"Monday?" Freddie asks.

"Afternoon," John clarifies.

"Oh, that’s great then!" Roger says suddenly, "We can get my mate Bri to chuck the heavier stuff in his van - he goes there, finishes his last class at three fifty."

John notices Freddie's face sour a little. "Yes, I guess we can."

John flicks his eyes over to Roger. "Bri?"

Roger shakes his head, smiling.

"Brian. He's a bit older than me, but we get on well. I don't see him much lately cause he's trying to start up a kind of group with some of his classmates, doing little gigs round the sister schools and that. He also does a lot of music theory. Huge bookworm."

"Not to mention his friend is a complete tosser." Freddie says.

Roger ignores him.

"You'll like him; he's quiet. I'm sure he'll do us a favour if I catch him in the right mood. What do you reckon? Four, John?" Roger asks. "

John pretends he can't see whatever look Freddie is trying to give him, and nods.

"Four it is."

He turns back to the bench once more, feeling like his nerves have been sated and ramped up all at once. Like he does with absolutely everything he's worried about, he's turned something simple into a big event - something he does far too frequently. He can't help it. His brain thinks, then thinks, and overthinks until he can't clearly see that it's only some clothes and tech equipment.

Freddie finally catches his eye, and he shakes his head gravely. "His friend really is a total dickhead."

John doesn't know what to say to that, so he glances over at Roger, who's rolling his eyes.

Roger doesn't seem too fussed, so maybe it's just Freddie. It should be fine, John tells himself. It's just a person. A new person. Two of them.

"He might not even be there, Fred." Roger says, as if he's read his mind. "And if he is, you can just ignore him like you always do."

"I highly doubt it. Anywhere Brian is, he's bound to be." Freddie mutters, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "Tea nearly ready, Deaky?"

"Oh," John says, because he's been making the tea for the past fifteen minutes, and it should be bloody ready by now. "Yes, it is."

He grabs the sugar jar to add one spoonful to his mug, dipping the spoon into the white crystals and flattening the top before he tips it in. He bypasses Freddie's cup, stirs his own, and he's done.

 

"I'll have one, too, Deaks!" Roger pipes up.

"You want sugar this time?" John asks, perplexed.

"Yes, one," Roger says, grinning. "No, no - one and two thirds."

 _Ah._  Roger's just being a shit.

"So none, then."

"Actually, a third of a sugar. Three sugars. One and three sevenths."

"You have three sevenths of a brain." John murmurs. He puts the sugar away without putting any in Roger's cup.

He feels something hit the back of his head, and he turns around to see one of his own smokes on the floor behind him.

He looks up at Roger, who is still grinning like an idiot. "Sorry, didn't know where my mouth was. No brain, and all. Be a dear?" He holds his hand out, beckoning his fingers forward.

John picks it up and makes to punt it at Roger's head, but he has a weak throw and a shit aim, so it goes sailing toward the middle of the room, falling noiselessly on top of the TV. He stares at it for a bit. If he had been aiming there, it would've been a nice landing.

"That's not my mouth either, mate." Roger teases, and pushes his lips out in a fake kiss.

John ignores him. His cheeks heat up anyway.

He sets their cups down and takes a seat, reaching for his pack on top of Freddie's Slims. Roger taps his hand, and works a cigarette between his pointer and middle finger.

John slowly raises it to his lips, the filtered end settling in place between them. Roger follows it with a lighter, and John leans in, careful of his hair, as he clicks it on, lighting it for him.

John leans back with a deep drag in.

"Very gentlemanlike behaviour, Rog." Freddie comments, and John laughs through his exhale, nearly choking as he does.

Roger smiles at him.

John doesn't ask yet. The not knowing of whatever game makes it more fun to observe for now. Besides, he knows he can get it out of Roger easy when he decides he does want to know exactly why Roger is insistent on acting like someone who wears top hats and tips bar staff when he's around Fred - though he only seems to do it now and then, and only towards John. It's like he's trying to prove something - Roger, of all people. That fact alone is entertaining enough.

 

 

 

 

-

 

Brian's friend, as it turns out, really  _is_ a dickhead.

He's a bassist - an instrument John's always been fond of but had the opportunity to play - and is part of Brian's little student band, along with Brian's girlfriend Clara and another guy John's already forgotten the name of.

He's regular enough, jeans and a white shirt tucked into the hem, curly hair reaching down to his jaw. Not someone John would hang around with, but not someone who he thinks particularly _looks_ like an asshole.

John is thrown into a conversation with him before he even has the chance to say hi. Not that he was planning on saying it first.

 

"You're Roger's friend, yeah?" He says out of the blue. John can only assume it's directed at him.

They're standing by Brian's van in the campus car park, waiting for him to hurry up and be done with his class. Freddie is by the bonnet, chatting away to Clara with Roger standing by them, smoking, his eye on the door of the building.

Fucking bastards, leaving him alone.

John kicks the bitumen with the toe of his platform. "Yeah."

"Tim." He says, but doesn't stick his hand out to shake.

John's glad for it. He's been told he has a weak grip, and it's made him self-conscious meeting new blokes since he heard it.

Tim looks down at his feet, then up to his face. Then down again - lingering on his rings, his heels, the flowers on the hem of his shirt. The silver necklace he has around his neck. John wishes he would stop _looking._

"So, you're one of them then?" He asks.

John's eyebrows pull into a frown.

"Sorry?"

Tim jerks his head back, toward the three standing by the front of the car.

"Yeah, I'm their friend. I mean, I haven't met Clara but-"

"No, no," Tim cuts him off. "Like Freddie. One of _them_."

John's mouth turns sour. The eyes on him run over his body once more, and John wants nothing more than to be invisible, then. He'd be the invisible man, unseen as soon as he leaves his home - just the way he likes it. A wallflower - part of the wallpaper. Tim's eyes come to rest on his face. John lets it twist into something less friendly, while still falsely polite. Something he's far too good at.

"I don't know what you mean." John says, and his voice is sharp. Challenging.

Tim eyes him suspiciously, and looks as if he's about to say something, but doesn't. His holds his hands up, backing off under John's stare.  _Good,_  John thinks, _fuck you. Fuck off._

"I must be mistaken, then." Tim says, and John doesn't know whether he's annoyed or confused by him. He doesn't care.

"I'm going to stand over there," John announces, "Nice meeting you, Tim."

He says it because it's what you're meant to say. That doesn't make it true every time.

 

He bumps his shoulder against Freddie's when he reaches him, and his friend gives him a pat on his arm. Somehow, he knows. He knows how to create a comfort zone around John when there isn't one, and what to do when he's upset. He knows to speak for him when there are people around to listen, and John's own voice doesn't work. He'll say what John is thinking when he's too shy to do so, and John has always been thankful for it.

Freddie leans back, so John leans forward to hear him.

"Wanker," He says into his ear.

John laughs.

Roger seems to notice he's migrated over, then, because he smiles around his cigarette. He holds his gaze for a moment before flicking them over to Clara, who is currently talking about a recent trip she took to see her dad, and his face turns attentive and interested and he falls back into the conversation easily.

He watches him talk, happy to keep quiet himself, noticing the way Roger nods his head when she speaks - doesn't try to cut in or add the little anecdotes the way some people do. Despite his loud nature, he really is quite sweet.

John feels the space around his heart start to warm - a fierce, defiant thing - so he drops his gaze to the ground, his forming smile now aimed at the bitumen.

 _One of them,_ John repeats in his head. _Yes, I bloody well am._

 

 

Brian eventually emerges from the back of the uni at half four, clutching four very large books to his chest and a guitar strapped to his back.

John sees him walking towards the van, long gangly legs in some flared brown pants, hair clouding all around his head, and decides Roger's description was very apt.

He reaches the van, and Clara excuses herself to take Brian's books from his arms without him ever asking. He plants a quick kiss on her cheek, then turns to the group, looking flushed and very tired.

"Sorry I'm late. Had to run some notes by my professor because she goes on leave soon and I really don't think her replacement is as strong on this topic." He explains in a calm, warm-toned voice, despite the rush to get everything out.

John takes in the chipped white polish on his fingernails, the titles of his textbooks - _Exploration and Investigation of the Cosmos, Vol. II_ \- and the fact that he already knows who his substitute will be, and decides he likes him already.

"It's alright, Bri, we just talked while we waited the seven hours for you to be done," Roger says, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

Brian shoves him, and Roger stumbles, giggling.

"You're not patient enough to wait that long."

He looks over at John, then, and his eyes go wide.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry - I'm Brian," He sticks out his hand, and John hurries to do the same. Long fingers wrap around his for a short moment, and John is pleased to find how gentle they are.

"John."

"I know." Brian says, and smiles. "I'd love to chat with you, properly, but I've got to drop Tim off after, and then I'm going to Clara's for tea. I hope I don't seem rude. Things are pretty hectic at the minute; I'm honestly buggered."

"Finals are coming up," Clara says, making some sense of Brian's apologetic tone.

"Ah, I understand. I had mine not too long ago." John says, and tries to ignore the fact that he has no idea when to expect his results - he doesn't even know if he'll have anything to show for his time spent at uni.

"I'm sure you did great," Clara says, and John decides he likes her, too.

There's a sigh behind them that's too loud to be natural, and John looks over his shoulder to see Tim watching them with a blank expression.

"Come on, then," Freddie says from beside him. "Let's go before Tim gets cranky about missing _Dad's Army_."

He's quick to hide it with his hand, but John catches Brian smile.

"We'll catch up sometime soon then, John?" Brian asks him, reaching to open the driver's side door.

"'Course. That'd be lovely."

"Lovely." Brian echoes

Roger shoves past him, then, knocking Freddie aside to stand at John's side.

“Don't forget about me so soon," He jokes. John can feel his hand flexing on his lower back.

"Roger, you git."

"It's alright, I know I'm unforgettable - You don't have to say it." He steps, taking John with him due to the grip he has on his side, and opens the back doors of the van - both handles, one hand, which seems quite difficult. Rog seems to have no trouble with it, and once he has them open he swings that same arm out, gesturing for John to step inside.

His other hand doesn't leave his back until the others start to move, wanting to get in first and find a good seat among the equipment and John's various bits of tech. He lets it slip, then, making to push his shoulder playfully instead, ushering him inside.

It's a rough fit, because there aren't any seats in the back, and technically they aren't meant to be in there either, but it works out alright.

Roger tucks himself into a nook beside John, despite there being hardly any room there. Clara is up front with Brian, Freddie tucked between them - leaving Tim to sit in the back, perched on the curve in the metal where the tyre is.

John ignores the looks he throws his way, and focuses on the steady press of Roger's body against his shoulder whenever they go around a corner. Though after the first few minutes, he starts to do it despite the road running straight ahead.

It's a pure thing - just wanting to be closer - and John suddenly wonders how anyone can think it's wrong. That they're wrong for not hating it, or for not hating themselves because of how they're made. There's enough of hate in the world already - bitter seeds planted and grown until they're common enough to be called 'opinion'.

Why something as simple and natural as love is a target for that bitterness - that hatred - John doesn't know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

John pulls Roger's t-shirt away from his mouth.

"You never had any pets?"

Roger shakes his head. "Nah. No time for them. Parents both worked, me and my sister had school."

He speaks without looking down, dipping his thumb into his mouth to swipe at the corner of his book, turning the page effectively with one hand. John hums into Roger's side.

It's late, and they'd usually be sleeping by now, but Roger insists on finishing the science fiction novel he's been reading the past few days, and John has no choice but to block out the light of the lamp by burying himself into Roger's ribcage, one arm tossed over his chest.

He can feel the fall and rise with each breath he takes.

"What's happening now?" He asks, voice muffled and drowsy.

"It's not your turn to ask a question." Is Roger's reply.

John mumbles an 'alright' against Roger's shirt.

He starts to turn away, moving slowly to keep the heat under the covers around him, aiming to curl up and try to get some proper sleep. Roger catches his arm.

"No, c'mon." He takes the hand on John's upper arm and runs it over his head, effectively petting him. "The main character has realised there's no escaping from the place he's trapped in-"

"The sand dunes?"

"Yeah, the sand dunes. So he's gonna try and make the most of what he's got there. I guess. I haven't read the last few pages yet."

John makes a noise of agreeance, and he thinks Roger continues explaining, but his words are drowned out by the feeling of short nails scratching lightly at his scalp, carding through the shorter hair at the top of his head. He could fall asleep from this, easily.

 

He's roused by something moving his body, shifting him, and he opens his eyes to pitch black. The lamp's off. He must've drifted off at some point. He makes a noise, not awake enough to be grumpy.

"Just me, Deaks. Go back to sleep."

The words are whispered, but they're right in his ear, loud and familiar. Roger.

He lets himself be rolled over, and soon there's a warm body tucking itself behind him, knees behind his knees, arm over his side. It's a solid, steady warmth, one he's used to having in front of him, nestled safely into his chest. It's nice being on the other side. Being held where he'd usually be doing the holding.

John curls in on himself, and Roger moves with him. He can feel warm breaths through his hair, tickling the skin on the back of his neck, and he understands now why Roger let him keep sleeping like this after the first night.

He mumbles out a goodnight, and lolls his head inward to kiss at the hand that's covering his own.

Roger's hand, holding his.

 

 

 

 

-

 

He's dreaming.

Maybe he isn't. He's not sure.

There's a firm pressure against his pelvis, and he doesn't remember falling asleep this way, so he must be dreaming. He can feel heat rushing to and from his skin, all over, flushing in his face and chest and feet, then drawing inwards again to tighten his muscles until they're taught and restless in his body. He's floating in some blank location, a steady pressure building around him and inside him.

The slightest movement brushes over his hip, then between them, and he's hit with a sudden wave of need.

He chases it, bringing his hips forward to try and find some purchase there, but his body feels sluggish and slow. He tries again, and this time he finds it, steady and warm in front of him. He wants to grab at it, hold it in place, but he can't seem to move his arms. He settles for rocking his body as best he can, though his movements are slow - too slow to gain any pleasure from it.

His cock is trapped awkwardly along his hip, but he doesn't want to stop to try and take it out of his shorts lest the pressure go away, so he just whines, frustrated and incredibly horny, bucking his hips into something that's too far away.

Then it shifts, and his cock drags against it in a way that's brief but feels so good, so he does it again, curling forward to rock against desperately against the body pressed against him. He groans, and the rumble in his throat wakes him up.

The sudden, stark familiarity of an ass pressed up against his dick has his eyes flying open.

 

As if sensing he's woken up, Roger presses his ass in more firmly - and it is Roger, not some dream presence. This is Roger, wriggling backward to rotate his ass in insistent circles against John's cock.

"Rog?" He croaks.

He's stopped moving, but he hasn't pulled away just yet.

Roger groans.

He sounds...He sounds wrecked.

John's throat tightens, and his mind goes blank. His hips rock forward again instinctually, and the jolt of pleasure it sends rushing through him has him doing it again. Then he stops himself, because for fucks sake this is Roger, and he's half asleep and incredibly turned on and he needs to get his head on straight and get into a cold shower.

But then Roger speaks, voice hoarse with sleep, and those thoughts leave his head completely.

"C'mon, Deaks, keep going," He says, and the breathiness of it catches John off guard.

Roger pushes back into him, bouncing as best he can given he's on his side, and the sensation is so much and not enough. John bites his lip, hand flexing over Roger's tummy.

"C'mon," Roger repeats, sounding like he's on the verge of tears. "Please, John, c'mon."

The high pitch does something to John, and he finds himself moving his hand so it's gripping at Roger's hip. He digs his fingers in, drawing a whine out of Roger's throat. Then he rocks forward, with purpose this time, and his head falls forward against the back of Roger's neck.

It's not slow, or leisurely, or sweet.

John is desperate, chasing a rhythm he can't quite seem to follow, the feeling so good and so intense it's almost too much to bring him over. He clutches at Roger harder, bringing him closer, panting into his ear. His cock is brushing up the cleft of Roger's ass with each movement, setting him right up against the edge, but the rough fabric of his pyjamas and the angle are stopping him from getting there. He whines, lost in the feeling, starts rambling into the skin of Roger's neck.

"Please," He whines, and doesn't even know what he's asking for. "Please, Rog, please. Need you."

"You've got me."

John shakes his head. "Please,"

Roger seems to understand, then, because he turns, and the look on his face is almost enough to make John come right there and then. Almost.

Roger's face is flushed pink. There's sweat in his hair, his eyes hooded and unfocused, bottom lip red and bitten. It wakes him up, seeing it, because Roger is _into_  this - into him. That he knows John is getting off against him and isn't objecting.

"Touch me?" John asks, and he finds he's not nervous for saying it. "Will you touch me? Please?"

Roger nods, seeming to understand. He shifts a little to make some room, then his hand is snaking between them, past the loose waistband of his shorts, and John is suddenly thankful he doesn't wear underwear to bed.

Roger's hand curls into a fist around him, so tight it's dizzying, and John's breath catches in his throat. He can feel the flex of his fingers, the rough skin covering his fingertips. There's a moment where he does nothing - just keeps a firm grip around John's dick, hard and twitching from the sudden rush of sensation.

John has a thank you on his tongue when Roger starts pumping. His thumb hits the head of his cock and lingers there for a moment, pressing into the underside almost experimentally. Then it disappears, running back down along his length, and Roger begins to jerk him properly - fast and rough and dry. There's no real technique to it, and the pinch of his skin is a tad on the painful side - but it's _Roger's_ hand, stroking him under the covers of their shared bed, and that single fact has John back up on the edge immediately.

He's speaking, John realises, murmuring praise and encouragement into his hair.

John tilts his head back to listen, but Roger attaches himself to his neck as soon as he does, biting lightly, pressing firm, sloppy kisses to the sensitive skin.

"D-don't-" John tries to warn, not wanting him to leave a mark.

"I know," Roger cuts him off, "Don't worry, I've got you. I've got you."

He works his hand faster as he talks. The increase in speed has John arching into him, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. He's close. He's so close.

"Come on, John, let go. Let go for me, love, please," Roger urges.

John's hips buck up into Roger's fist the same time he squeezes down on him, and he finally, finally tips over that edge, body shuddering fiercely as he comes.

He feels the wetness spill over Roger's hand, the slick of it running along his cock in a way that should be gross but feels so fucking good. He ruts into Roger's hand once, twice more, moving against his loosening grip until it becomes too much. He whines, shifting back to get away from the sensation, completely spent and somewhat overwhelmed.

Roger wipes his hand over John's shorts, and he grimaces at the feeling of his own spunk soaking through the thin cotton onto his leg.

John nuzzles forward into Roger's shoulder, his breaths still heavy and uneven.

Roger moves his head so his cheek runs along the top of John's head - similar to something he'd do with his hands. Then he does have his hands on his head, but they're moving, dipping under John's chin, tilting him upward until he moves his face away from Roger's chest.

As soon as he does, Roger surges forward.

His mouth tastes like spit and stale smokes, but it's _hot._ The heat of Roger's mouth, tongue, lips is all over his own, moving urgently against him like he only has a certain amount of time left. He feels teeth on his bottom lip, and one of the hands moves away from his jaw.

John knocks himself out of the initial shock - and force of it - and kisses back, pressing his lips against Roger's hurried ones at a much slower pace, wanting to enjoy the feeling of the soft warmth against him. Roger doesn't let up, though, continuing to nip and push urgent kisses into him - some of them missing his mouth entirely, landing on the space between his mouth and nose, or his nose itself.

"Rog," John tries to get out.

His words are swallowed up by a very hot and fleeting tongue, darting in to swipe at the underside of his lip, which - fuck, it feels good, but he's trying to slow him down, so John pulls back further, Roger's hands still on either side of his face.

"Rog," John repeats, then he looks down, and - _oh,_ _right._

 

Roger is hard, straining against his own hand as he palms himself through his briefs. There's a wet stain in the fabric - John can see it when Roger brings his hand up, then back down again. The sight makes him flush, which is ridiculous considering what they've done already. His heart kicks back up, and he flicks his eyes up to see Roger's face twisted into a painful expression. John knows it's not pain, though - it's desperation.

"Keep kissing me," Roger begs, eyes not moving from his mouth, "Please, I'm close, I'm really close, please kiss me."

John does.

He isn't the most experienced kisser, so copies what Roger did before, tilting his head so his nose is out of the way and letting Roger's tongue explore his mouth, returning with tender licks of his own. It's slick, and messy, and Roger is panting into his mouth with laboured breaths. It picks up, beginning to catch as he inhales - it's a tell, one John has himself. John knows Roger really is close when he starts holding his breath, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He sucks Roger's bottom lip between his teeth, licking over it with his tongue. Then he bites down, hard.

He doesn't know why, and for a minute he thinks he's hurt him because Roger goes rigid. John pulls aways from his mouth to ask if he's okay, mortified he's done the wrong thing - Then Roger makes a sound like the breath he's been holding has been punched out of him, and he slumps forward, limp and boneless. He wriggles, moving his arm away from his front, panted breaths against John's neck starting to slow, and John knows he's done.

He runs his fingers over the back of Roger's head, twisting them in his hair and feeling the sweat on his scalp. He combs them through, running all the way through the length without a tangle. He gets to the end, and he starts again.

"My dick feels really gross right now," Roger says after a while.

John can't help it. He laughs.

"S'not funny, it's gross." Roger groans, rolling so he's flat on his back. John looks down at the obscene - and now see-through - stain on his underwear, and feels his face heat.

"Super gross." John agrees. He doesn't mean it in the slightest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> How was that? That ending may seem pulled out of nowhere, but it’s all for a good cause. Goes toward the charity of ‘Helping Roger Talk About His Feelings’.  
>  
> 
> As always, I love u till the end of time for ur feedback, you’ve been very enthusiastic and lovely toward this fic xxox


	6. one slip

John feels Roger extricate himself from his arms with careful movements.

He shifts slowly, moving his head, arms, legs until John is tucking himself into the covers with Roger on the other side of them.

He's half asleep, but he's acutely aware of the now-dry spunk on his shorts, and the red mark on Roger's lip where he bit him. His eyes follow Roger as he stands, and bends to grab his purple trousers from the floor. He hangs them over his arm, pulling at the hem of one of the legs to straighten them. John unabashedly watches his arse as he does so. He figures he's allowed to by now.

He wants to say something sweet. Or casual. Maybe say thank-you, if that isn't weird. It's probably weird - like it was some arrangement. Mostly he just wants to say something just to say it. To talk to Roger, hear his voice.

He comes up short.

Roger turns to him, a bundle of clothes now in his arms, and says, "I'd better shower. Fred and I are going to the stall for two hours, just to get the morning crowd, y'know? You can stay in bed - We'll bring back proper coffee."

He doesn't mention the- whatever they did. John isn't sure how exactly to define it. But it feels substantial enough.

John opens his mouth, ready to ask just that, but all that comes out is, "Okay."

Roger gives him a lopsided smile, and starts a step toward the bed, but stops. John wonders if he was moving to kiss him.

"Go back to sleep, yeah?" He says, then he's out the door.

 

John plans on getting up as soon as Roger leaves, but the covers around him are heavy and dull his senses. The water of the shower turns on, and the spray serves as a lullaby to pull him back and forth between awake and asleep.

It runs for a while. John imagines it as rain - something they haven't had in London for a few days yet. It's been refreshing not having to slick rain off his clothes every time he enters a place from the street, but in a way he misses the familiarity of the wet slog the streets become. A funny thing to miss, but he does. It reminds him of home, and the mud he'd track through the house after not taking his welly's off, copping it from his mum for it, then sneaking out to play with his mates next door to come home and do it all over again.

The shower shuts off.

There's several minutes where John just lies back and listens to the sounds of the flat, finally waking properly this time. He can hear Freddie in the kitchen, shifting his feet every now and then, the clink of his cup on the tabletop. He can hear the radio, albeit very softly playing in its place on the bench. He hears Roger turn the tap on in the bathroom, then off, then on again, and he knows he's shaving - though his hairs are so fine they're near invisible when they do grow in. Roger shuts the door of the bathroom quietly when he leaves - probably assuming John's gone back to sleep.

There's a few moments of that same sedation of morning feet-dragging, then he hears Roger speak. It's whispered, but John can make it out.

 

_"-red...He's asleep, yeah."_

_"-talk to him?"_ Freddie's voice is hard to hear, but it's distinctively his.

_"No...Make things weird, y'know?"_

_"Got to...No, you don't know that, Rog,"_

John hears a sigh, and there's a lull that stretches on for a while. If there's words among it, he can't make them out.

_"-e too much. I don't know...I'm kinda scared, Fred."_

_"-him?"_

_"-No, never. Just...felt about a chick like this before."_

_"...a chick, right?"_

There's a laugh, and John is suddenly reminded this is a conversation not meant for him. That whatever they're laughing at is private, and he's intruding. That he should probably close the door, or turn his head, or simply stop listening so hard. He doesn't, because he's a bad person, or he's intrigued, or countless other excuses.

He listens out for anything else, but the topic seems to have tapered off, because the next words he hears are, _"Alright,"_ then  _"Shall we go?"_

There's the squeak of chairs being pushed back along the floorboards, and John tucks his head quickly into his pillow when he sees the bedroom door start to open. In a moment of panic, he shuts his eyes and tries to lay as still as possible, feigning sleep in a way he hasn't done since his early teens.

"John, I know you're awake," Roger's voice comes from the door.

Fuck. John sits up, feeling far too guilty for having not actually done anything.

Roger's hand tightens and loosens on the doorknob - he's wearing a loose, shawl-type garment over his shoulders, not matching at all with but complimenting his deep purple trousers. His feet are covered in pink sparkles - glittery trainers John hasn't seen him wear before.

"You look nice," He says, and he means it.

Roger doesn't quite smile. "Did you hear all that, then?"

John feels his face heat, because to say no would be a lie, but he didn't exactly grab much from whatever words he did hear. He tells Roger as much.

Roger seems to tick it over in his head.

"Alright. I've got to go, but...You'll still be here when we're back, right? You don't have plans?"

John shakes his head. "I never have plans. 'less they're with you two."

Roger does smile at that.

John opens his mouth to ask about it, again, because he needs to say it, but for the second time that morning Roger seems to sense what's coming.

"I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Roger-"

"I'll bring you coffee."

"Rog, we should-"

"We will. Later."

John's fingers twist into the quilt until he's formed a half-fist. "You're regretting it, aren't you?"

It's unfair to say, especially now, but it's not entirely untrue of how he feels. He hasn't ever done this before, so he doesn't know how it goes, but he knows enough to make some assumptions. Even if they're all negative; fuelled by his own anxieties.

Roger's face drops.

"No, fuck no, Deaks. Shit. I didn't mean it like that, I just- I do have to go, and I really want to talk to you, but I don't have my words quite figured yet." Roger says, then adds. "One and three sevenths of a brain, y'know?"

It's enough to crack the wall of worry on John's face, and he smiles.

"I think it's just three sevenths." He says.

Roger smiles back at him.

 

John wants to ask him to stay - talk to him now, sit with him, be close to him. But he knows that wouldn't be fair on Fred, and they've had their marketplace routine for months - he shouldn't be the one to disrupt it. So he pushes his rattling nerves deep under his skin and waits until they dissipate.

"Go on, then. I'll be here when you get back."

"Right here? Tucked up in our bed?"

"Right here." John confirms. The word 'our'repeats in his mind.

 

 

 

_-_

 

John tries not to wait up.

He busies himself, first making the bed after he’s out of it, then re-folding his clothes in his section of Roger’s chest of drawers.

He would’ve changed the whole bedspread - stripped the sheets which he knows are covered in sweat and ash and hairs that have been combed out of both their heads, taken the covers of the duvets and pillows and swapped them with fresh ones. Except he doesn’t know if Roger even has spare sheets, and doesn’t want to go down to the laundrette and wait around by himself for however long it takes to clean and dry these ones.

He finishes folding his own clothes - more of them now that Brian had kindly dropped off the rest of his possessions - then moves on to Roger’s things without thinking twice. There’s a lot squeezed into the rather spacious drawers, filling it so that bits of cloth get caught every time he opens and closes it. John’s sure if he had a place to hang them they’d be all out on display, in colour order - or maybe set into outfits. Roger’s very co-ordinated with his clothes, in his own odd way. Whatever he wears, he seems to make a cohesive fit out of it.

Looking over some of his pants and jackets, John wonders how he manages it.

 

Chest done, neatly stacked and drawers all shut properly, John moves on.

He feels a bit like he’s fourteen again, clearing out all his train sets and model planes to make room for his first crystal radio, and all the bits of junk and wiring that came along with making it. He used to have to find a few things to get rid of for garage sales now and then, too, but that was more necessity than anything.

For now, he feels like he’s cleaning a space that’s become his own.

The floor is clear enough - Roger’s never been one to throw too many things on the ground when he goes to bed for the night, and in ways of furniture there’s really only the medium-sized chest of drawers by one wall and the bed alongside the other.

The bed is actually a fair way off the ground, thanks to Roger’s thick mattress, but the slats are also raised up as well thanks to their position on the legs. John wonders if there’s anything underneath it.

He’s on his hands and knees to check without second thought.

It’s dusty, and there are cobwebs in one corner, but otherwise it’s fairly barren. He tilts his head, pushing himself further underneath the bottom of the bed, and there is actually something there, by the far end - right under where his and Roger’s heads lay.

He struggles the rest of his long body underneath the bed slats, and reaches for it. He pulls it by his fingertips, nudging it inch by inch, wriggling himself out with it, then he sits back on his heels, looking down at his find.

It’s a record player.

Albeit an old one, fairly banged up at that, but it looks alright enough to play. John takes it over to the dresser and sets it gently on top, running his fingers around the sides and the back, checking for the input ports or inbuilt speakers. There seems to be a dent where one of them would be, and he can feel some fraying in an exposed wire where the plastic has given way.

His eyes focus, because this is now a project.

John brings the record player back down to the floor with him, crosses his legs, and gets to work.

 

It's a fiddly, finicky process, but he's glad to be back to it. The wires and small tools are familiar in his hands - the weight of them something he didn't know he's been missing until now. He has his toolbox open - a small, sturdy thing he's had since he saved enough money to start buying things for himself. It used to only hold spare change and scrap metal, but over time he slowly filled it to hold enough for him to work efficiently on whatever he fancies. Which hasn't been much, lately. Part of him thanks Roger for being so careless with his tech.

He works with a honed patience, fingers precise and careful. The only sound he can hear are his own movements and the far-off buzz of the radio. He finds he's content with quiet the empty flat is offering; He loves the sounds of his friends at home, bustling about, but it's also nice to know he's properly alone.

The player is coming together nicely, he decides. The dent in the metal turned out to be superficial, and he has the wires twisted and taped, placed together inside the hole where the plastic case has broken away. It'd be helpful if he had the missing piece - he could glue it down somehow, or even just put some electrical tape over the sides and have it looking somewhat whole. He has half a mind to go searching for it under the bed. He ends up doing just that.

It's a tighter squeeze this time, having to put his whole self flat against the ground and wiggle between the floorboards and the frame of the bed, but as Roger's told him before, he's skinny - something he's never really payed mind to until now. He can't imagine being a heavy set bloke trying to search for a bit of black plastic on his roommates' floor, stuck under the bed with no-one around to get him out. That'd actually be a laugh to see, John supposes.

He reaches his hand out, sweeping across the thin layer of dust, but doesn't find what he's looking for. Instead, he finds something else. He smooths his fingertips over the cardboard squares, and smiles to himself.

Stacked against the wall, as if they've fallen down the side of the bed that way, are a handful of records. Only two or three, but they're records all the same. Ones he can use to test out his handiwork.

John gathers them up and slides out from under the bed - except he hits his back trying to sit up too soon, and collapses onto the floorboards, letting out an annoyed groan.

 

"John?"

He hadn't even heard the front door open, let alone the footsteps that led to the bedroom.

He twists his head, and sees Roger's sparkly sneakers standing in the doorway.

John squirms faster, trying to get off the floor as quick as he can to say hello, no I wasn't just napping here, no I'm not stuck - but his elbow catches under between the bed slats when he moves to push himself out, and it hits his funny bone.

"Ow! Fucking hell,"

Roger's laugh bounces around the room.

"Can I ask what you're doing there, mate?" He sounds far too bloody amused.

"No, you can't. Piss off." John snaps, then rethinks it. "Actually, help me out - pull my ankles that way or something."

He watches Roger bounce back and forth from the ball of his heels to his toes.

"Nah, I think I'd rather piss off. I'm gonna drink your coffee, too."

 _No you won't,_ John thinks.

"Rog, you twat." Is what he says.

He starts to wriggle again anyway, because he can do it on his own, he's just pissed off at the bed and if any part of him touches it one more time he might start to have a fit underneath it out of anger.

He hears Roger giggle at him, continuing on after he finally gets free and is able to sit up, slightly dizzy from being on his tummy so long. He's still holding the records in one hand.

John dusts himself off with his free hand, brushing over his brown waistcoat with quick, feathery movements. He looks up at Roger, who's standing in the doorway with two takeaways, a wide grin plastered over his face. John feels his anger at the bed start to fade the longer he looks at him.

Roger's eyes move from his face to his hands, then across to the middle of the room where the - hopefully - fixed record player sits.

John follows his gaze.

"Oh, yeah. I found that under the bed. I hope you don't mind." He says, a twinge of shyness creeping into his voice, because he hadn't exactly asked before messing around with Roger's things.

Roger shakes his head, walking in to sit on the edge of the bed. He bends down to place a coffee cup beside John. "It doesn't work, anyway. I only kept it cause, I don't know. It's sentimental? Mum got it for me on my 18th."

John nods in understanding, despite not having many sentimental items to keep himself.

"I, uh, fixed it up a bit." He says, gesturing to the machine. "Haven't had a chance to test it out, but-"

"Really?" Roger cuts in. "You fixed it?"

John tilts his head from side to side. "Maybe."

Roger slides off the bed, then, tucking his knees up against his chest to sit next to him. He gently pries a record from John's hand, fingers tapping against the open end of the sleeve.

"Shall we give it a go, then?" Roger asks.

John takes in the glint in his eyes - the eagerness, the excitement - and finds himself praying that what he's done will work.

Roger slips the record from its sleeve, neatly holding it between his palms, and John flips up the lid of the player so he can place it on the turntable. Then Roger turns the volume up midway, hits the switch, and drops the needle.

It doesn't spin.

Roger slumps back against the bedframe. John's runs through each component of the player he's touched, or didn't touch, and tries to figure out what he didn't do. Then - _Oh, Of course._

John crawls over to the back of the player, takes the single black cable in his hands, and plugs it into the socket in the wall.

"Try it again," He tells Roger.

Roger does.

Seconds later, the scratchy sound of a bluesy rock tune emerges from the tinny speakers.

It isn't a song he knows, but Roger seems to, because his smile brightens considerably. His eyes flick from John down to the record, then back again.

"You're amazing."

It's a simple compliment, but Roger says it so earnestly, his bright eyes looking at him like he's hung the moon, just for him. For Roger, he'd try his best.

John moves to sit beside him, noting the way Roger shifts subtly so their shoulders are pressed together when he does.

 

They watch the record spin for half of the A side.

When Roger does speak, his voice is abnormally quiet.

"I've never heard this record played on my own stereo before."

John turns his head slightly, watching the side of Roger's face, waiting to see if he'll continue. He meets his eye, briefly, before his focus is back on the record, still spinning in place.

"I got it the same time as the player - a two in one kinda gift. I guess mum figured getting me a record player when I didn't own any records would be kinda lame, so she got me this one," He motions to the cover, which John hadn't actually noticed before.

It's a white sleeve, with grey sketches. _Roger the Engineer - The Yardbirds._

"She got this one cause of the name, I reckon, but I love them. Great guitarists." Roger says.

John wordlessly agrees, and there's another moment of music-filled silence.

"I..." Roger starts, then stops.

John watches his face contort, trying to find the right words - something John is very familiar with. He hates to see the same uncertainty on other people, especially Roger. Especially with him.

"It got wrecked the day I got it." Roger says eventually. "The record player. It was my birthday, so we had a few family friends round to celebrate. I wanted to go out, you know, cause I could drink, but mum really wanted me home with the family, so I was."

Roger fidgets, and John wants to take his hand. Squeeze it in reassurance. But he doesn't know if he should.

He keeps his hands where they are.

"Anyway, my dad had a few drinks with the people 'round, and was- he was pissed about something to start with, I can't remember what. But once everybody cleared out, he was really into it. He gets- got pretty intense. But it was always worse with mum."

Roger bites out a laugh, void of humour, and John desperately hopes this isn't going in the direction he thinks its going.

"Rog," He starts, wanting to tell him he can stop, that he doesn't have to explain, but Roger shakes his head.

"He used to hit her." Roger says.

The admission hits John like a needle through the chest. Sharp and precise and immediately painful.

"It's- I'm- They're apart now, it's fine." Roger tells him, as if he knows exactly how John is feeling. He's probably heard it all before. The 'there-there's', the 'I'm sorry's'. John tenses his jaw so none of those things come out.

"Just- That night, they were arguing about the washing up, or something like that, and he started to find things to throw. Heavier stuff, the angrier he is. My present just happened to be sitting on the bench." Roger explains.

Not knowing what to say, John lets his hand move, not stopping it this time, to cover Roger's where it rests on his knee. Roger parts his fingers so John's can slip between them. He squeezes, and feels Roger squeeze back.

"I don't talk about it with anyone, cause it isn't their business, you know?" Roger turns, then, and his expression is a mix of sad and sentimental. John nods, letting his grip loosen so he can run his thumb across the back of Roger's hand.

"I wanted to tell you, because you're..." Roger pauses. "I wanted to tell you, 'cause its what most of my nightmares are about."

John stills his thumb.

He holds his words carefully in his mouth, like they might bite if he says them too soon.

"When you talk, during them, you sound upset. You're trying to get out of a bathroom..."

Roger winces.

"I talk that much?"

"Well...it's in bits, and you never specified where, but you never close the bathroom door all the way when you shower. I just figured, if there's somewhere you don't want to be locked in, I wouldn't close the door either."

"You're too smart, sometimes, John," Roger says, but he doesn't sound upset with him.

The record stops when the needle reaches the middle, the slow fade-out barely noticed by John. He takes the needle off the record, but doesn't flip the side over yet.

"Rog, you know you don't owe it to me to explain your nightmares. Even if I'm with you when you have them." John says sincerely.

Roger shakes his head. "No."

"It's-"

"No, I mean...I want to tell you. I want to tell you, and talk to you about stuff, and have you tell me stuff, too." Roger clarifies, "There’s something that happened, and it really affected me, y’know, to where I started having dreams about it. It’s that same night, in my nightmares. I wanna tell you about it...I just can't yet. Is that okay?"

John's expression softens. "Of course it's okay, Rog."

Roger turns into him, so he's pressed against his side. "Thank you."

 

They sit like that for a while, before the quiet of the flat becomes overtly obvious.

"Rog - where's Fred again?"

"Met an art pal as we were packing up - said he was gonna hang out for a bit."

"Ah."

John picks up his forgotten coffee and sips at it. It's warm, still, thanks to the lid. Milk, one sugar. Perfect.

Roger settles further into his side, and John lets him, continuing to sip at his coffee until he reaches the colder, grainier parts at the bottom. He sets it down on the floorboards empty.

He sits, Roger tucked against him, and wonders what they'd be talking about if he wasn't so controlled by his own nerves of saying the wrong thing, or even the right thing, and watching the conversation turn into something out of his control.

Feeling Roger's hand flex against his, he braves it.

"Rog,"

"Hm?"

"This morning..." He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "Was that...okay?"

Roger tilts his head up so he can look at John, eyes big and blue and beautiful. His mouth turns up into a delicate smile.

"Yeah. Really okay."

John smiles back.

"I've never done that, before, you know," He admits.

Roger quirks an eyebrow. "None of it?"

John shakes his head 'no'.

"Even the kissing?"

His face heats even further, and Roger's mouth drops, though he's still smiling.

"I'm your first, then." He says, like he’s just been handed something precious.

"Don't tease me, Roger," John says, turning to try and hide his face. Roger reaches out to grab at his shoulder, pulling him back in.

"No, I'm not teasing you. It's..."

"Embarrassing?"

"No, no. It's...It's sweet. Kinda hot, if I'm honest."

John looks up, because Roger's got to be fucking with him. But seeing his face now, John knows he isn't.

Roger twists, moving so he can kick one of his legs over John's lap, and then he's sitting between his crossed legs. His eyes leave John's own to glance down at his mouth, where John has his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at the skin there.

"Will you kiss me again?" Roger asks.

He says it in a way John can't ever imagine saying no to.

He leans in a little, then pauses. "Will you say please this time, too?"

"Please." Roger says, without so much as a second thought. "Please, John."

John nods, and Roger brings himself forward, pressing his mouth against John's in a gentle, tender kiss. Much gentler than John was expecting. 

He tilts his head slightly, brushing a strand of hair out of his mouth as he does.

"This'd be easier if we both got a bloody haircut," He mumbles.

Roger laughs. John can feel the smile still on his lips when he captures them with his own.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

It's Freddie's turn to make tea that night.

It's rather quiet in the room with the radio off, not giving out its usual buzz of static and news or music. Roger's foot taps against his in a steady rhythm under the table, but he says nothing, merely peering out at the empty spaces of the room.

John feels suspiciously like he's waiting for something.

Freddie pours the water into the teapot quickly and without spill, sloshes it around a few times, then sits it back down. He waits all of a minute before he's pouring it out into the three waiting teacups.

John's brows pull together, because if there's one thing about Freddie he both appreciates and is frustrated by, it's the amount of time he'll let those two rounds sit in the pot. Sometimes his tea will come out like chewing straight on the bag, though John always drinks it anyway.

The cups are placed down - Freddie, Roger, himself - and Freddie takes his seat at the 'middle' of the table. Instead of taking a cigarette out, he folds his hands over themselves on the tabletop and looks up at him with a careful expression.

John braces for the worst.

 

"So, I had a chat to the landlord about you staying here," He begins, and John's heart drops.

"Do I have to leave?" John asks.

Freddie's eyes widen. "What? No, no- Why would you think that?"

He seems genuinely shocked. John motions around at the way they're both sitting.

"Well, you've got me all set up as if to 'have a talk'. I just assumed..."

Freddie looks over at Roger with a pointed look. “I told you we didn’t need to be so bloody formal, Rog. Look, I’ve gone and freaked him out.”

John shifts in his seat when Roger looks up at him, eyes apologetic.

“Sorry, John.”

“It’s fine, but really, what’s going on?” He looks between Freddie and Roger, who both have a strange mix of expressions on their faces.

“Go on,” Freddie says eventually, and Roger grins.

“We’ve found another flat.” He says, and kicks John’s foot. “Not too far from here, either, and the place looks way nicer than what we’ve got.”

John notes his excitement, but can’t seem to take it in as his own. He turns to Freddie, who’s smiling.

“That’s great, truly.” John tells them, and he means it. “But what’s that got to do with me? Or the landlord?”

“Well, I figured I’d better let him know you’re staying here, because you’ve been here longer than ten days and I wasn’t quite sure what the ‘rules’ are for this building.” Freddie explains.

John starts to sip his tea as he continues, finding that there’s an extra sugar in it.

“We’re not breaking any laws, so don’t worry about that. He said your name doesn’t have to be on the lease as we’re outside of… building codes or something like that, was it, Roger?” He turns for an answer. Roger shrugs.

“Anyway, to get to the point, he said it doesn’t matter anyway because our lease is coming up in a month or so, and we’ll need to re-sign if we’re going to keep staying here.”

“But…you’re not?” John supplies.

“No! If everything works out, of course. I’ve been looking for a while - something I like to do when we’re at the stall and things are dreadfully boring. It’s on the third floor of that block by the ice cream place, you know the big grey one?”

“Among all the other big grey ones,” Roger adds. Freddie swats his hand, causing ash from the top of his smoke to shower down over his fingers.

“It’s nice, is what we’re trying to say. It’s a bit smaller, but it has two bedrooms just like this one.” Freddie finishes, looking at him expectantly.

John isn’t sure what he’s meant to be saying by this point.

He watches Roger brush ash off his hands, and craves one in his own.

Roger meets his eye, and theres a smile in them.

“We’re asking if you’d like to move in with us. Properly.” He says.

 

The statement has a spiral of unwanted emotion start to wring his throat. John swallows, but it gets stuck halfway.

He can’t say yes.

He wants to, so badly, but he can’t. He’s been living here for weeks, eating the food, using the water, working the stall, all unofficially as a resident - but this would be different. This would be a contract, his name alongside Fred and Roger’s, stating they live at one place, equally. And he isn’t an equal.

He works the stall, but it’s not his. He sits and watches and smiles as people go by, but he has no idea how to sell, and hasn’t tried as much for fear of scaring people off. Despite telling himself he’s not, and being reassured the same, he’s not of any use when it comes to actually contributing. Being a good friend isn’t the same as being a good housemate, and John knows he isn’t the latter right now. That he won’t be until he has a job, and takes the childlike fear of the outside world from his shoulders.

He waits long enough for the smiles to slowly drop from his friends’ faces, and he feels a rush of hatred at himself for ruining their excitement.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and he feels his voice crack under pressure.

Freddie frowns at him. “What are you sorry for, darling?”

The wringing on his neck tightens, and its hard to breathe, now. The low amount of air he has in his lungs is clawing at him, a sourceless fear turned into a physical presence.

“I can’t. I’m really sorry, but I can’t.” He manages, though the words are far-off to his own ears.

“It’s alright, Deaky, you don’t have to. I just thought since things are going so well, here, you might want to…Never mind, it’s all fine, John.” Freddie says, and his hand pats his - one, two - in a gesture of comfort.

John wants to speak. Wants to explain that it’s not that them, it’s his own head - it’s living poor for the majority of his life and the notion of paying your way drummed into him time after time. It’s the anxieties he knows will follow into a new place, tainting it, growing until he decides they really have had enough at him just being there, doing nothing - or worse, doing something and still growing sick of him.

It hasn’t happened yet, but it might.

John opens his mouth and the final lock clicks into place, trapping his voice inside. He can’t speak.

The others just look at him, sitting there with a sad expression, and resign the topic. Freddie starts to drink his own tea, finally lighting a cigarette and sucking it down quicker than he usually would.

John feels the foot move from atop his shoe, and he looks up at Roger.

He doesn’t look disappointed - he looks as if John’s just said something much worse, directed entirely at him.

He looks like he’s just told him he doesn’t want to live with him anymore.

 

John’s face falls. His own worries forgotten, he tries to push past the mass in his throat, behind his tongue, to tell Roger what he’s feeling.

Roger watches him carefully.

When nothing comes out of John’s mouth, he sits back in his chair, brings his cigarette to his lips, and turns his head.

Toward the kitchen, away from John.

He doesn’t look at him for the remainder of the evening.

 

 

When they get ready for bed that night, things are different.

John changes in the bedroom, as usual, but Roger doesn’t so much as glance his way.

He doesn’t smoke in bed - just waits with the lamp on for John to be done, switching it off as soon as he has his head through his pyjama t-shirt.

He wants to make a joke about Roger being moody, anything to take away the tension that’s started to form, but he doesn’t, because he knows the reason Roger’s upset, and it was his lack of talking that caused it.

He’s silent when he crawls into bed.

John settles in slowly, back pressed against the wall, shifting forward slightly to get away from the cold plaster.

“Turn around.”

Roger’s voice is quiet, but the intent is clear.

John pretends he doesn’t already know what Roger means.

“Hm?”

Roger sighs. “Turn around, John.”

His back is to him, face towards the far wall, the way he always sleeps. The way John always sleeps, too, folded around him.

“I can just-” John starts, trying to come up with an alternative on the spot. Roger stops him.

“Not tonight.” He says, and that seems to be that.

John stays still for a good moment, hoping Roger will relent. Roll over, maybe. Tuck his head into him as if he isn’t mad, or upset, and their bedtime moments can stay as just that.

That doesn’t happen, though.

So John picks himself up, and turns to face the wall. His back presses up against Roger’s, but the contact doesn’t feel intimate at all. It feels like a wall.

John tucks his head into his own chest, mumbling out a goodnight.

Whether Roger hears him or not, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t get a reply.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Wednesday marks his two weeks living in the flat.

The 23rd - a rather average date, John thinks. It should be, too, for all the joy he feels about it right now. He rolls over in an empty bed, and finds he isn’t surprised Roger isn’t there.

Roger doesn’t acknowledge him that morning.

He acts like Freddie when he’s pissed off, but he’s much more obvious about it, and far more sullen.

John has had enough of it by the time they’ve made breakfast, but he doesn’t say anything.

Roger eats Freddie’s poached eggs, smokes his cigarette, and pointedly avoids eye contact with John - who is sitting directly across the table - the entire time.

Freddie, the godsend he is, doesn’t point out the obvious shift in attitude between them, and steps around the awkwardness with deft feet.

“Nice day outside, isn’t it, Deaky?” He says absently, draining the sink of its dishwater.

John looks up, and notes the way Freddie’s eyes move from the back of Roger’s head to meet his gaze. He takes the hint for what it is, and stands.

“Yes, I’d say so,” John watches Freddie, who subtly nods. “I might head out for a walk.”

He glances down at Roger, but he hasn’t so much as raised his head.

It’s like having a child, John thinks, and wonders if Roger was the type to slam doors and kick things about when he got mad as a kid. Judging by the slouch of his shoulders and the terse silence, John thinks not.

“I’ll be back, Fred,” He tells his friend.

Freddie gives him a quick nod, a thank-you in his eyes.

John would say he leaves the flat because Freddie needs to talk to Roger in private, but really he’s glad for the excuse. Any longer of Roger not talking to him might have him ready to grab him by his shoulders and shake him. And he’d probably do it; Despite everything, they’re friends first. The way they communicate shouldn’t change just because some things are different now.

He can’t recall every receiving the silent treatment from Roger before. Experiencing it firsthand, he know he’d rather get into a screaming match than go through those pointed silences again.

He just hopes whatever Freddie says will knock him out of it. He needs him to.

John leaves the flat without another word, and tries not to let his fingers linger on the handle once he’s on the other side.

 

 

 

Despite his mood, it is really a nice day outside.

John isn’t wearing his favourite platforms, so the ground is more forgiving on his feet as he walks the street, avoiding the odd person here and there by dipping his shoulder out of the way and letting them pass. He doesn’t bother with the polite smile he’s apparently supposed to give if they meet his eye. Half the people in England don’t anyway.

Everything is strikingly familiar, running in the same loop the street does every day. The tables and chairs are out on the wide of the footpath, ashtrays with ‘Do Not Steal!’ written on the side sitting atop each one. He can smell coffee when he passes by a cafe with an open door, but mostly he smells the plain, exhaust-fume air that comes with the street.

His gaze runs over the windows as he strolls, paying so little attention he almost doesn’t see it.

John stops, and he lets his eyes focus on the bit of paper stuck to the back of the glass door, reading through it properly.

“Kidding,” He lets out, eyes not leaving the paper.

It’s a notice, hand-written in block letters, taped to the glass door of the local music shop.

 

_ ‘Casual Help Wanted - Mon - Thurs, Some Saturdays - Apply Inside’ _

 

John stares at it so long he doesn’t even notice someone come up behind him. A hand waves in front of his face, and he starts, standing quickly to apologise for being in the way.

Then he sees a mess of brown curls atop a familiar face, and his apology turns into a smile.

“Brian! Hi - How are you?” John says in a rush.

Brian smiles with him, a warm, gentle thing.

“Hi, John, nice to see you. I’m well, thanks.” He says, formal in a way that somehow doesn’t come off as ostentatious. “ What about you? You seem to be studying that sign pretty hard, there.”

John ducks his head. “Yeah, I guess I was.”

Brian motions to the flyer over his shoulder. “I come here all the time, the guy who runs it does it all by himself - I’m actually headed in now to get another lead for my amp. I must’ve lost the last one when I packed the van last night.”

“You had a gig last night?”

“Equinas College, yeah. Not too many people came, but it was a gig, and it’s good to practice in front of people. We’re getting better at it, I feel.” Brian tells him earnestly.

John smiles at that - at the dedication, the love for his group and his music. He wonders what Brian is like on stage - if he sits, or stands up front, or lingers in the background as part of the four. “I’d like to see you play sometime.”

Brian’s eyes brighten. “Really? That’d be great. I’d really like that.”

For a minute they just look at each other, and John wonders whether he’s meant to say anything more. Luckily, Brian fills the gaps for him, and carries on.

“We don’t have anything booked yet, but I’ll let you know. I’ll just call the flat, or if I see you before then…Either way, I’ll let you know. Maybe you can try and convince Freddie and Roger to come along, too.”

John hums. “I’ll be sure to try.”

Brian shifts on his feet, looking from John to the door, and John realises he’s still standing in the way. He sidesteps, giving Brian access.

“Thanks - I’d stay and chat more, but Clara’s waiting by the car.” He moves to open the door, but pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “I can talk to Ian for you, if you’d like. Put a good word in. Roger says you’re good with tech.”

John falters. “Um, yes - I suppose. I did my degree in electrical engineering.”

Brian’s eyebrows raise. “Engineering, really? I’ll mention that, too.”

“You don’t have to-”

Brian waves him off. “It’s alright, John. I’ll just be saying I know a friend who’d be a good fit. It’s your choice if you go in or not.”

He turns the handle, starting to step inside.

“You should, though. I think you’d like it.” He says, and gives him a nod goodbye. John does the same, and the door closes in front of him.

John watches him give a wave to the tubby man behind the desk, and they laugh about something he can’t hear. Brian makes his way over to a rack above a set of displayed guitars, and John looks back down to the notice taped to the door.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll go in tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

-

 

Freddie is sitting cross-legged on his bed when John knocks on the open door.

He looks up from his lap and smiles, waving John inside.

John motions to the door as he enters, asking if Freddie wants it shut.

"No, no, it's fine. Come sit." Freddie pats a spot in front of him on the bed, which is covered in various throws and what seem to be offcuts of material.

Freddie closes what seems to be a diary, trapping the pen inside as he does. John never even knew he kept one. He sits down, pulling his knees up to his chest, eyeing the ornate cover of the book in Freddie's lap.

"I write poems, sometimes," Freddie says when he notices he's looking. "Nothing too serious, but I've got to get my art out somehow."

He sounds almost shy - something Freddie has never been. Not around him, anyway.

John nudges his knee. "I'm sure whatever you write is a masterpiece."

Freddie rolls his eyes, but he smiles. "You flatter me, Deaky."

"No, really. Can I...Could I read some?"

He watches his friend's eyes flick over his book, as if he's scanning the pages inside for anything that could possibly be sub-par and therefore unreadable. Freddie purses his lips.

"Alright."

John grins, picking up the book, which falls open to the page with the pen inside of it. He squints at the wide, loopy writing; the scratched-out words and paragraphs; the little arrows and underlines. It’s messy, and well-thought over, and very Freddie.

He reads over a circled paragraph, and feels a stir of pride in his heart for his friend, because it really is good. He always knew he was. That he is.

_Storm_ _the_ _master_ _marathon_ _I'll_ _fly_ _through_  
_By_ _flash_ _and_ _thunder_ _fire_ _I'll_ _survive_  
_Then_ _I'll_ _defy_ _the_ _laws_ _of_ _nature_ _and_ _come_ _out_ _alive-_

The last few words are scratched out with a few pen-strokes. John looks up at Freddie’s expectant face and smiles.

“It’s great.”

Freddie shrugs him off. “It will be. It’s a work in progress.”

“You planning on doing something with it?” John asks, stretching his legs out so they’re on either side of Freddie’s crossed ones. He taps his side with his foot to an off beat, and Freddie smacks him playfully.

“Maybe. I thought that…Since Brian is wanting to branch out and start creating his own songs, he could use some lyrics.” Freddie says.

“Who’d sing them?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Whoever it is, they’d better be good. This is my art they’ll be presenting. I don’t want anyone fucking it up.” Freddie says, grabbing his foot and shaking it. John laughs.

“I’d do it for you if I could hold a note,” He says, and Freddie laughs with him.

“You are atrocious, aren’t you?” Freddie says, grinning.

John kicks him.

The laughter dies down into a comfortable quiet. He folds Freddie’s book closed, minding the page, and hands it back to him. Other than the sound of the radio, there are no other sounds in the flat.

“Roger’s not home, is he?” John asks.

He knows the answer before he says it, but maybe Freddie will give him a reason why.

Freddie gives him these sad, gentle eyes, and John has to look away. He doesn’t want the sympathy. He doesn’t know what he does want, but whatever it is, it’s not this - this moodiness they never have around each other.

“I talked to him, after you went out. Tried to. He…What you said last night…”

John groans. “I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it however he thinks I meant it. I just- I don’t want to make anything official without contributing to the rent. I wouldn’t feel right.”

“I know, Deaks. I think Roger knows that, too. He’s just-”

“Temperamental?”

“Delicate.”

John frowns, because that is not the word he’d use to describe Roger.

“He likes you, John.” Freddie tells him.

John meets his eyes.

“He told you that?”

“What he has or hasn’t told me doesn’t matter - I can see it. I’m sure everyone who sees you two together can see it.”

John stays quiet, because yeah, in a way he knows - he’s known since the first few nights - but has been waiting for Roger to say something. Waiting to find the right time to say it himself. Freddie watches him, that same gentle expression on his face, and John wants to break down and cry. Have Freddie hold him and pat his back and tell him exactly what to do and say. Maybe the problem will be gone by the time he’s given himself a headache.

“John. Talk to him. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s been amazing. I haven’t seen Roger this upbeat in a while.”

John pulls his feet inward, away from Freddie’s grip.

“Roger’s always upbeat.”

“Not like he is when he’s with you.” Freddie tells him, and if anyone were to know, it’d be Fred.

John inhales as deep as he can, because Freddie’s right, but he’s also not sure if Freddie knows they’ve been…intimate. Or that John has no idea if that’s supposed to make things easier or make them ten times more complicated.

John knows exactly which one he feels like.

“How many partners have you known Roger to have?” Freddie says out of the blue.

John makes a face. “I don’t know? Quite a few?”

“Mm - and how many of those has he been with for longer than a few days?” He says pointedly.

John thinks about it, and no, there hasn’t been many at all. None, actually. There was one girl he met through school, but as soon as they tried to make things official things went downhill within a day or so. He hasn't known anyone to last a week - most of them only around for the night, if they’re lucky.

“None.” John says, “But Rog is just like that - he likes to flirt and mess around and have fun, I guess.”

Freddie gives him a look. “John, dear, you’re missing the point - Roger hasn’t ever done what he’s doing with you.”

“I don’t even know what we’re doing. Roger has commitment issues, I get it, Fred.” John says, starting to get frustrated at whatever goal Freddie is trying to reach with him.

“He doesn’t have issues with it - he has no experience with it.” Freddie sighs. “I’m not your marriage counsellor, but I want this to work, because you’re both my best friends. Roger likes you, John. Why do you think he’s been showing off with all his ‘gentleman’ bullshit.”

“That’s just a game, though.” John says, pulling his brows together like a cross child who’s just been told ‘that’s not how things work’.

Freddie rolls his eyes, looking as much done with the explaining as John is hearing it.

“It’s a game, but it’s because I told him he couldn’t woo someone! He’s so great with the flirty looks and all his tricks down at the clubs, but he’d never make it trying to court someone.”

John’s head whips up. “Roger’s been trying to court me?”

Freddie gives a laugh, and pats him on the shoe.

“He _has_ been courting you, darling Deaky, and in case you haven't noticed, it’s been working.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

John wakes to the sound of metal hitting the floor.

It’s far off, and he’s half-asleep, alone in Roger’s bed. The sound confuses him, because it’s followed by a soft, “Shit!” and the sound of whatever has been dropped skidding across the floor as if it’s been kicked.

It doesn’t sound like something a burglar would do while robbing them - not that there’s much to rob - and that leads him to remember Roger’s been out since noon and never came back to the flat.

He doesn’t know what time it is now, and doesn’t want to know. It feels later than he ever cares to be up, and that’s enough to have him groaning into the pillow, tugging the covers over his head to drown out the sounds of Roger stumbling about the lounge.

That lasts about two seconds, because there’s an even bigger crash that has John bolting upright in bed.

A drawn out “Oh nooo…” follows closely behind.

John presses his hands into his face, willing the bed to swallow him whole, and gets up.

 

Roger is in the kitchen on his hands and knees, trying to scoop water into his hands from the floorboards.

There’s water everywhere, all stemming from the kettle that’s lying on its side in front of the stove. Roger has his hands cupped with nothing in it, pouring them into the top of the kettle. His knees and legs underneath him are soaked - if he were sober, Roger wouldn’t dream of getting these pants dirty: they’re pure white and cost him quite a few pounds.

“Roger,” John says, taking pity on him. “Come on, hop up.”

Roger looks up at him, his gaze turning into a dizzy, happy, lost mess.

“John! Heyy, man! You’re here.” He says, words slurred as all hell but clearly pleased.

He’s hopeless, John thinks. Helpless. At the minute, the two are interchangeable.

John takes a tea towel out of the drawer and throws it down on the ground to sop up the water, then grabs another one to lay over the top.

“Yeah, I’m here, Rog. I do live here.” He says as he gathers the towels in one hand, standing to wring them out in the sink. One more should do it.

He looks down at Roger, still sitting on his haunches, a sad expression taking over his excitement.

“Not for long.” He says, then he leans forward, forward, until his forehead is touching the floor.

Roger falls onto his side, into the darkened patch of wood where the water just was, and covers his face with his arms.

“Going t’sleep.”

Internally, John hits his head against the cupboard door.

Externally, he finishes wringing out the last tea towels, places them against the side of the sink, and bends down so he’s crouching beside Roger.

“You can go to sleep in bed. You want to stand up so we can go to bed?” He says, like he’s talking to a three year old.

It works, though, because Roger pulls his arm away from his face and looks at him - his eyes dart back and forth like the room is spinning, and he’s having trouble focusing. It probably is.

“You want to leave,” He says.

It’s not what John is expecting him to say.

“No, I don’t want to leave. I’m not leaving. I just want you to hop up so I can get you to bed,” He says gently, but this time the tone doesn’t work, and Roger flings his arm out, shooing him away.

“M’not dumb, John! M’drunk, I know, but I’m not- Not a fucken’ idiot!”

He tries to stand, so John stands with him, bracing his shoulders when he starts to sway forward.

Roger meets his eyes, and for a second John thinks he’s about to hit him. Instead, he begins to cry.

He pitches forward, eyes already spilling thick tears, and drops his head on John’s shoulder. His back is shuddering where John runs his hand over it.

“Let’s go to bed, Roger.” He repeats.

Roger shakes against him.

“Please don’t.” He says brokenly, “Please? I’ll be good, I’ll be really good, please stay w’me.”

John’s brows knot together, but he doesn’t question it. “Okay, Rog, we’ll both go to bed, alright, and I’ll be right next to you.”

“Thank you,” Roger cries into his t-shirt, “Don’ want t’be alone, m’sorry for being rude, m’sorry.”

“It’s alright, Rog,” John pulls away and wipes his knuckles under Roger’s eyes, smoothing the tears along his cheeks. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

Roger nods.

 

John leads him into the bedroom, holding his hand to guide him to through the door, over the lead of the record player, and onto the bed. Roger starts to roll over as soon as his arse hits the mattress, but John stops him by gripping his thigh.

“No, Rog, you’ve gotta take your pants off, they’re all wet.”

Roger giggles through his tears. “You wanna take my pants off,” He says, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“Yeah, they’re wet. Plus, you never sleep with pants on anyways.” John tells him, moving to undo Roger’s fly. He stops halfway, leaving Roger looking confusedly up at him.

“You can undo them yourself,” He says.

Roger just falls back onto the bed, splaying his arms out behind him. “Nah. M' gonna sleep now.”

He tries to turn again, so John moves his hand up Roger’s thigh to dig his fingers into his hip. “No, Rog, fucks sake, you’re gonna get the bed all wet.”

“Take ‘em off, then.” Roger tells him.

John huffs, because Roger’s drunk, and he’s tired, and this is not the way he expected to be dealing with Roger after last night. But he is drunk, which means he won’t be reading too much into whatever is happening the way John is.

He keeps that in mind as his fingers undo the zipper of Roger’s trousers.

Roger lifts his arse minutely so he can strip them down his legs in one fluid motion, tugging harder when they get stuck on his heels. John pushes back the bunched up fabric to get to his laces and undoes them, slipping the shoes off Roger’s feet and taking his socks with them. Then he tugs at the pants one more time, and they come free.

Atop the bed, Roger giggles again.

“You’re getting me naked.” He states happily.

John tosses the trousers across the room, where he hears them land in a wet heap somewhere on the floor. He taps Roger’s thigh, indicating for him to move. He scrambles out of the way, moving to curl up in his usual spot. John sighs, pulling the covers out from under him as best he can and crawling in behind him. He lays down on his side, facing Roger but not touching him.

Roger wriggles backward.

“Hold me, please.”

The stark contrast to the previous night is dizzying.

Roger’s hand flails about a bit before it finds in John’s neck, and he pats him a few times, still shuffling his body back until it hits John’s chest.

“Please?” Roger repeats, and whether its the word itself or the quiet, slurred tone that carries it, John isn’t sure, but he complies. His arms wrap around Roger, strong and sure, as if he’ll float away without John securing him down to earth.

There couldn’t be a better metaphor for Roger, John thinks.

He isn’t surprised when Roger starts wriggling again moments later.

They’re fidgety at first, but his movements become more insistent, pressing his arse into the V of John’s legs and circling his hips.

“Rog,” John warns, because Roger’s drunk, and still mad at him. He doesn’t want him waking up with even more things they’ll have to talk about circling his hungover head.

Roger doesn’t listen - just keeps shifting against John’s dick, which—if he doesn’t stop—is going to start reacting to the stimulation very soon. John pushes at Roger’s back, right above the dip of his arse.

“Rog, come on, stop it.” He pushes again, and thankfully Roger does stop this time.

He turns under the covers, sloppy and slow, until John can see the glint of his eyes. He wonders if Roger can see him as well, with his eyesight being what it is.

“Don’t you want t’fuck me?” Roger asks him, his voice barely above a whisper.

John’s breath catches in his throat.

“What?”

“I thought you would. I want you to.” Roger says.

He sounds sober, saying it.

If John ignored the run-on of his words and the sedated way he moves, he could pretend he is. But John knows he isn’t, and it makes the admission harder to hear, because he does want to.

“No, Rog—not like this.” He says.

“I can move.” Roger tells him, “I’ll turn around - do whatever you want.”

John feels a twinge of sadness at the eagerness Roger has to please - he wonders if this is how it goes each time someone takes him home when he’s drunk and stumbling.

John’s hand clenches where it rests on Roger’s side.

“You don’t have to do anything, Rog. Just c’mere.” He tugs at his shirt, and Roger follows, squirming forward so he’s cradled into John’s chest. “Just lie down and go to sleep.”

Roger lets out a frustrated grunt.

"Just-fuck me. Y've been waiting to- to do it, right?"

“I just want to hold you.” John tells him, and he hopes Roger can hear his sincerity through the haze of the alcohol.

Roger wriggles in his grip, then stops.

"Is that alright?"

“S'alright.”

He slumps forward, knocking John's chin with his head in the process, and curls up into a ball, bracketed by John's arms.

He’s asleep within seconds.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right: so  
> this chapter’s original ending was sad, angsty, hopelessly depressing. I was gonna leave it that way.  
> BUT some shit went down and I am feeling around 32% out of 100% and I ~need~ this story to be happy. I wanna write and feel good doing it.  
> Sounds okay? Okay. You’re only missing out on a chapter of pain (and so am I lol)
> 
> This chapter has a different feel I think - I actually followed my notes for it. Pls tell me what you think, especially about the whole prolonged angst vs. conflict resolution sitch. I love hearing from you sweet, sweet people.


	7. i wanna sleep in your arms

He introduces himself as Ian.

John shakes the man’s hand, and his grip is so tight it squeezes his fingers together. Hands of a labourer - not exactly the gentle ones of someone who’s worked with instruments all his life. But John figures he never knows - he doesn’t own a music store himself. It might be all heavy lifting behind the scenes.

He’s shorter than John by about three inches, is round in his face and gut, and has the thickest moustache John’s ever seen growing over his top lip.

On first walking in, John was a mix of eased and intimidated by the man. His demeanour is friendly enough, but his brow is deep set in thick wrinkles, and when he speaks it’s with a gruff, solid Northern Irish accent.

“Now,” He says, and it sounds like ‘naye’, “Left is guitars and accessories, and the right is mostly equipment and percussion. You remember that and you’re halfway there.”

John looks out at the store, his hands tucked tightly into his jeans’ pockets. It smells a bit musty, like there hasn’t ever been a time where a window or the door's been left open to let some fresh air in, and the walls must be padded because they seem to suck the noise right out of the room. Even words once they’re spoken don’t carry out.

“I’ll be here most days for your first few weeks anyways - me daughter isn’t due till the end of next month.” Ian tells him.

John looks to the man beside him, who’s smiling to himself.

“Congratulations,” John says tentatively.

Ian turns to him, and his smile spreads into a grin - John doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone, let alone a man, be this happy about being a grandparent before. “Oh aye, so it is. She’s coming to live with me once she has the baby. It’ll be great, the three of us all together.”

John relaxes hearing the joy in his voice over something so pure, and comes to the conclusion that the stoic exterior gives way to a complete teddy bear.

Ian claps him on the back. “Might be you one day.” He says, and shakes himself out of his dreamy expression.

“Now- till is behind the desk, so’s a cricket bat in case any shits try stealin’; there’s an ash tray too, just don’t go smoking when there’s customers around. You’ll get to know when the on and off times are. What else...Oh- same goes with friends coming in and out: don’t stand ‘round and having the craic if there’s someone in the store.”

John takes it all in with a nod of his head, filing each advice into a section of his head called ‘Do Not Fuck Up’. It’s quite full already, but he manages.

“I’ll run you through opening and closing when we get to it, but really, turn the lights off and lock the door, it’s simple enough.” Ian says, then shuffles on toward his stool behind the counter and sits down heavily. “I said before, I’ve got t’ get me books sorted, but you’ll get 8p an hour if you decide to come back Monday.”

John nods. “I will.” He says earnestly, because there’s no way he’s going to give this chance up.

Ian smacks the desk with his fist, and John jumps back, startled.

“Great then! Sorry for scaring you there, lad - Let’s go through the equipment here and then call it a day. Come back here at eight next week and you’ve got yourself a job.”

John’s eyes widen. “Just like that?”

“Ye don’t look like a dickhead, and I trust Brian’s judgement - Lord knows he’s been buying here for long enough.” Ian tells him.

In that moment, John wishes Brian we’re here so he can hug him. He’ll have to make it up to him somehow. Maybe make good on his promise to drag Freddie and Roger along to a gig.

John looks over at Ian, who’s eyeing him like he’s waiting for him to say something, and John rushes out a thank you. “Really, truly. Means a lot.”

Ian shrugs. “I need the help. Store needs to keep running while I’m off being a Poppy.”

“You’ll be great,” John says, and the smile the man gives him makes his nerves at coming in earlier seem silly.

“I bet I will, aye.” He smacks his legs - another loud, abrupt noise - and begins to wave his hand over to the corner of the store. “That’s the heap of shit I’ve yet to set up after the order came through. If you open that one there, it should be some...I’ve bloody forgotten what’s in there, but open it up...”

John follows the instructions eagerly, kneeling beside a stack of flat rectangular boxes with his hands moving wherever they’re told. Opening the first few, he finds they’re electronic parts - parts of a speaker, or amplifier.

He looks up, buzzing, because he’s _useful_ here.

“I can assemble this.” He says.

Ian shakes his head, his eyes kind. “Monday. Then ye’ll at least be getting paid for it.”

He doesn’t know what he did to have this all fall in his lap, but he’s eternally grateful for the circumstances that led up to him being here, sitting on dirty carpet with cardboard covering his legs.

 

 

John walks home with that buzz still running like an electrical undercurrent beneath his skin. It’s ever-present, warming him even with the breeze carrying the bite of the cold night to come.

When he gets to the flat, he finds he has to unlock it with Freddie’s borrowed key - knocking for about a minute did nothing to have one of the guys opening the door for him.

It’s chilly inside, which could either mean they aren’t home from the stall and haven’t turned the heat on, or the gas bill got raised to the point where they can no longer afford it. Either option is entirely plausible.

John listens out for the radio, but doesn’t hear any crackling or low music floating around the flat.

Not home, then.

He undoes his boots, picking them up and heaving them through the open door of Roger’s bedroom where they land with a ‘clack’. He considers grabbing a jumper to stave off the chill, but he can’t be bothered.

He slumps into his claimed chair around the table and grabs his smokes from beside the ash-tray, which has a bit of paper sticking out from under it.

John pulls a smoke out of the packet, lights it, and lifts the glass to slide the paper towards him.

He recognises the wide scrawl immediately.

 

_ Dearest John - if you’re home and we’re not here then we’re not back from the stall, or have died in a horrible fiery wreck. _

_ Just kidding, we don’t have a car to wreck in. If we did we wouldn’t be buying vegetables from the fucking clearance bin. _

_ Anyway - Brian called for you. I told him of course you’d like to come to his show. He’s picking you up at 7 tonight to take you along - Me and Roger will be buggered, so we're not going. Say sorry to Bri again for me. _

_ Love you dear - feel free to cook tea for us _

_ XXX - Fred _

 

In typical Freddie fashion, he hasn’t left Brian’s number, so John can’t cancel if he wanted to.

He looks up at the clock, and wonders how much longer they’ll be if the market shuts around this time. He wonders if Roger’ll even come home before dark.

His routine has been off kilter since he woke John up drunk two nights ago, and his new one has been ‘hanging with friends’ that John’s never heard of before.

If it gets to Freddie, it hasn’t shown at all.

They both function on their regularly scheduled programming, with only John keeping a careful eye on the hour Roger gets up, or gets in, or if he lingers at the table after breakfast longer than usual.

It’s a fucking weird habit he’s acquired - keeping tabs on Roger - John realises. But he can’t help it. For someone so unbelievably predictable, even in the sudden changes of his moods, Roger has been hard to pin down the last few days.

John ashes his cigarette, then impulsively crushes the whole thing on the bottom of the glass tray.

It’s five, which means the stall has closed and Freddie at least will be home. It is Friday, though, and he’s not John’s keeper, so he may very well go out straight after. Something tells John he won’t without checking in with him first, though.

Freddie has always been a mother hen first, especially towards John - something he loved at first, then grew irritated by the more he grew into his own skin. Now, it’s like a blanket over him, knowing he’s being thought of. That he can speak and be heard of his own regard, but Freddie will be there to listen when others won’t, or shout on his behalf to make them.

John looks up at the clock again. He’d better have a shower if he’s going out tonight.

 

 

 

-

 

John’s never been to a concert before. Or a stage show. Or seen a band play at a pub. A guitarist, once, but he only had an acoustic and no mic set-up.

That lonesome experience is very, very different from the loud, shoulder-to-shoulder rush he’s in the midst of right now.

Initially, agreeing to come to Brian’s next gig was something done out support and interest in seeing the man play. He didn’t think an entire hall of people would think so too. No offence to Brian, of course.

They’re students, all of them, with the occasional adult head poking out over the crowd - probably a teacher making sure everything is going smoothy. Entry was three quid, but Brian got him through as part of the band. The place isn’t catered, but people are walking around with proper drinks, mingling in groups as best as they can given how packed it is, and the band currently playing are very keyboards-and-two-part-harmonies focused. Very ABBA, if they were made up of three young-looking women with one standing to the side playing only the tambourine. John wonders if she was also let in as ‘part of the band’ and has just wandered onstage to fulfil the fantasy.

There are a lot of girls, but there are guys too, spread out rather than clustered together in swatches of silver and long blonde hair. Nobody he recognises. It’s probably too far out of the small section of town he knows. Flashier, with a nicer name and clean floors and a proper rise for the stage. Not that that will factor in when it comes time to pay the three acts the bare minimum at the end of the night.

He can’t see Brian anywhere, but he does see Tim as he makes his way to the side of the stage, holding a beer and the neck of a guitar.

Tim looks up just as John looks over and their eyes meet - Tim squints, but he seems to recognised John fairly quickly because he smirks, raising his bottle in his direction.

It’s a friendly enough greeting, but it doesn’t feel that way coming from him.

John manages a tight nod and breaks his gaze, turning in what he hopes is a casual sweep of the rest of the restaurant of the room.

The first group - the girls & their plus one tambourine - have finished up their last song and are saying their thank-you’s to a relatively interested crowd. A few shrieks sound out in the room, followed by a giggle, and then a bloke from somewhere far off in the room yells “Get on with it!”

John wonders how hard it is to just listen for a few more minutes to the people who’ve just entertained them for the past thirty minutes.

Apparently too hard, because the crowd cheers at the outburst, and the girl backs away from the mic with an annoyed toss of her head. The tambourinist flicks a V up from the back, and John is thankful the rest of the room probably didn’t see it due to the low light. He doesn’t fancy being right up next to the stage when some knobhead decides to start a fight over it. They dismount the short steps and pass by John as they walk out toward the back door - the equipment must be house, because they leave it behind. The tambourine girl is the only one who’s taken her instrument with her, banging it against her thigh as she walks. She offers John a smile as she passes.

Once they’re down from the stage, there’s a minute of pure chatter flooding John’s ears - without the focus of someone singing, the background noise of the room is brought front and centre in John’s head. It’s a lot.

 

The microphone squeals, cutting through the din, and a voice is sounding out of the speakers.

“Right, hey everyone, how we doing after that?”

There’s a cheer, and John looks up to see Tim at the mic, his guitar around his shoulders but not plugged in yet.

“If you’ve seen us before, or if you haven’t, we’re The Nebulas-” There’s a soft cheer, “-and we’ll be set up in just a sec. In the meantime I’d like to quickly say this is our drummer John’s first performance with us,” Another cheer. “Yeah, thank you- There’s also another John here I’d like you all to say hi to while I’ve got your attention.”

John looks up from where his gaze had drifted out to the room, and sees Tim is looking right at him.

“Yeah, hi, John, right up front here. He can’t properly appreciate the company of all you lovely ladies,” There’s a ‘woo’ from a group of girls at the back. Tim keeps his eyes locked on John, grinning, “But I hope you have a good time anyway, buddy.”

That draws a few laughs, and John hears a “Wanker!” called out from somewhere nearby. He doesn’t turn around to check from where, lest he give whoever it was a face for his target.

He hopes if someone does throw something at him, they’ll at least do it without knowing exactly who he is.

John swallows the sharp stones in his mouth, and they scrape at his throat as they go down.

His eyes move to the back of the stage where the rest of the group - two people he hasn’t met, and Clara, surprisingly - are standing by their instruments with neutral looks on their faces. They give the impression that Tim does this a lot. 

Clara sees him and gives him a sympathetic smile.

John tries to match it, but whatever nerves he had earlier have twisted into…it’s not even anger.

Tim plugs in his bass, plucking a few test notes, and Brian finally appears onstage, frizzy-haired and looking thoroughly pissed off.

He says something into Tim’s ear, and the bassist steps back from the mic, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

Their first song starts up moments later.

 

 

 

 

-

 

“So you went and saw Brian.”

Roger says it almost conversationally. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug in the middle of the lounge, a medium-sized novel opened to the first few pages on the ground in front of him.

“So you finished your book.” John replies.

He’s just home and it’s half eleven, so why Roger isn’t in bed is a mystery to him, but he seems comfortable enough on the floor. Perhaps he’s just really into his reading.

Roger runs his thumb over the spine of his novel.

“The other day, yeah. How was he?”

John bends to unzip his suedes from his feet, toeing at the heel to get the off completely with as little effort as possible. They ache, a bit, just from standing around, and he flexes his toes once they hit the floorboards. He looks up at Roger, but his eyes are trained on his open page.

“Good.” John stops there, because what else does he say? Is he meant to go into detail about Roger’s own friends’ performance after barely saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to each other about cigarettes or cups of tea? Does he mention Tim?

Roger accepts his answer with a nod of his head.

John looks around at the kitchen, but the lights are switched off, including the radio and the telly.

“You’re up late,” John comments, and Roger raises his head from his book.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He says. It’s a simple statement, but the bags under Roger’s eyes add to it in a way Roger won’t.

John knows what he means, but he doesn’t want to bring it up, so he tries for humour. “I’ve been hogging the blankets a bit, sorry.”

Roger pinches a smile. “You’ve probably been a bit cold.”

Yeah, that’s an understatement, John thinks.

He looks over at Roger and wonders when it became this hard to talk to him. When he had to try and force words out, or bite them back. When their push-pull became just push.

“I have too, I think.” Roger says, and it cuts John’s thoughts off there.

Roger shuts his book, bringing a hand up to run through his fringe.

“I miss you. I miss talking to you, having you around and without having some kind of fucking…shit going on. I don’t like sleeping with you there but not there.”

John swallows those same rocks. “I miss you, too.”

Roger’s tired eyes widen a little, like he was expecting a rejection. “Did you…Are you going to bed?”

He thinks about it. Because yes, he was planning on going to bed. He was going to crawl in beside Roger, face the wall, and shut his eyes without a word. But Roger isn’t in bed, he’s sitting on the rug with big eyes that seem to be asking for a respite. Or maybe he just wants a night of pretending so he can let his limbs stretch out during the night. John considers it - ticks his options over in his head, one by one by one. By this point, between them, a yes or no might give him the same result.

He wants to be mature and say no, he isn’t, he might stay up a bit and just happen to fall asleep on the floor. Because that’s exactly how Roger will take it, and not a direct ‘I’d rather be on the floor than next to you’. Just like the talk about the flat, or them fucking.

It’s always so much more than a word or a look with Roger.

Which is why he says yeah, he is, and follows Roger into the bedroom.

 

Roger is silent as he undresses, and turns around to let John do the same. The door is shut behind him, lights off, bed unmade from the night before.

As soon as John’s head hits the pillow Roger is turning into him, though not as closely. He doesn’t latch onto him with skinny arms or reaching fingers - instead he rests his forehead on John’s shoulder lightly, like he’s asking for permission.

John doesn’t want a repeat of the previous nights. He also doesn’t want to cuddle up to Roger and ignore a very obvious issue that has been leeching his energy the past few days. But he’s human, and he’s tired, and the way Roger is hesitant about something he’s usually very pushy about makes him soften, and cave.

He nudges Roger’s side once, then again when he doesn’t get the message.

He’s wrapped around John in the next second.

It should feel off - like John should be asking what’s okay, or taking some three thousand kilo topic out of the vault and heaving it onto both of their chests for an analysis and discussion. He finds he doesn’t want to do any of it. Despite quite a few of his problems throughout his life being caused by not talking - he doesn’t feel like he needs to now. He’s been trying to talk through every little thing. Maybe just needs to listen. The gestures, touches, pre-lit cigarettes and half smiles - Roger’s been talking to him without saying a word.

He thinks about the nights they spend curled up in loose t-shirts, reading and smoking and touching - wordlessly moving closer or further apart.

John tentatively strokes his hand through the baby-hairs on Roger’s forehead, smoothing them along his skin and sweeping the longer ones into his hair. His movements get surer the more he does it, and Roger lets out a breath, relaxing more onto John’s chest.

Roger’s hair is clean, but not recently washed. John can tell by the lack of the overpowering scent of conditioner wafting from his blond locks. It’s nice, the smell of his hair now. It’s the same one that mingles with his own on the pillow they end up sharing when they’re curled in tight enough - the same one John breathes in when Roger falls asleep with his head tucked between his neck and shoulder. John runs his hands through his hair, making sure not to catch on any possible knots and pull on Roger’s scalp.

After some time, he finds his hands migrating to the base of Roger’s skull. Then his jawbone behind his ear, following it to the point of his chin. Roger tilts his head slightly to allow him to continue, not seeming to be too bothered by the sudden exploration of his face. John goes with it, tracing little patterns with his fingertips into the faint, faint stubble of Roger’s jaw.

It moves underneath him when Roger speaks.

“You can kiss me, you know.” He says, and his voice is quiet but he’s clearly awake. “I’ll…”

He stops there. John rubs his thumb over Roger’s cheek.

“I’ll say please if you want.” Roger finishes, almost shyly.

That’d be a first.

John can’t see his face, but he knows exactly where he is. He hunches his own shoulders forward, leans down, and pecks Roger on the forehead.

Roger swats at him with his free hand. “Not what I meant.”

John just laughs. A tender, blooming thing swirls about inside his chest, but it doesn’t grow out of control. The steady weight of Roger’s arm spread across him keeps it in check.

 

 

 

Roger doesn't quite have a nightmare that night.

He squirms, bumping against John's back enough times to wake him from his dream, and continues to do it once John is awake and rubbing his arm.

John takes a moment to remember he's in bed, not in a hotel room in...wherever he was in his dream, and another few to realise Roger isn’t shaking. He’s just moving, shifting back and forth, his breathing not elevated, or any cries coming from his mouth.

Not a nightmare, then, John surmises.

He keeps his hand on Roger’s arm, rubbing along the bare skin with lazy movements, and leans forward a little to try and see what Roger is doing. It’s a failed venture to begin with; the room is dark, and John can’t see anything besides the line of light between the door and floor.

He can’t see him, or hear him, but he can feel him moving, and it’s irritating. These realities float through John’s sleep-addled brain, and the solution comes to him easily.

John snakes his arm further around Roger’s body and tugs him sharply into him, his palm flat against his belly to still him.

The action must wake Roger up, because the pliant body beneath his grip tenses, and the movements stop.

“John?” Roger questions, his voice hoarse from sleep.

John hums into Roger’s hair, pressing his face in closer until his forehead is against the back of Roger’s neck. The hair there tickles his skin, but he’s too tired to properly care.

“John, let go,” Roger wriggles in his grip, so John flexes his arm, holding him tighter. “I’m serious, Deaky, I’m- I need to take a piss.”

“No y’don’t.” John grumbles into his neck.

He’s warm, and without Roger bumping against him sleep is rushing back at him with welcoming arms. Except Roger keeps speaking, staving it off at the last second.

“You dick, let go!” Roger’s voice is still quiet, but he sounds vaguely pissed off.

For some reason, this makes John laugh.

“Nah, gon…” He trails off, then remembers he’s speaking and continues. “Gonna keep you right here where you’re all soft…and not mean.” He adds the last part as an afterthought.

Roger smacks John’s arm where it grips like a vice around his waist, but doesn’t really try to remove it.

“I’m fucking hard, you git!”

John snorts, because really, it is funny, and he could very well be dreaming right now - in which case Roger can’t do any damage to him if he does get pissed off enough to hit him.

“It’s not funny!” Roger reprimands. “Your fucking fault- can’t even get off in my own bed cause you’re fucking here.”

“Fucking here,” John repeats, wanting to giggle but not having the energy for it. “Just…Y’know. Get off.”

Roger pushes John’s arm, and this time it does slip a little - down towards his hips, dangerously close to the one area Roger is making such a fuss about.

“John…”

“Jus’ do it. Pretend I’m not here.” John mumbles, his lips brushing Roger’s hair as he does. He tries to spit them out, but his tongue ends up licking along skin as he runs them along his lips, and the hair doesn’t go away at all.

Roger, for as angry as he seemed moments ago, has gone quiet.

John decides this isn’t a problem, because with quiet comes that haze of sleep - the drowse he was woken from and is waiting to go back to. But then there’s a noise, and he thinks Roger is speaking, but he can’t hear all that well.

“You are here, though.”

John hums in agreeance, because yes, he is. Roger sighs.

“You’re not even awake, are you?” He asks.

John hums again, nuzzling his head into the warmth of Roger’s skin to get comfortable. As he does, it slips away from him, leaving him leaning forward into nothing. John rolls onto his stomach, spreading his arms out wide in the empty bed. He presses his face into the pillow, which smells like hair and skin and Roger, and breathes in.

He doesn’t register that Roger’s not in bed until he hears the door open and close behind him.

 

 

 

-

 

He doesn’t tell Freddie or Roger he got a job right away.

He doesn’t tell them after his first day, because it’s too soon, and he knows that talk about earning money will go hand in hand with talk about moving to the other flat together, which won’t go down great if he doesn’t talk to Roger first. So he’s estimated in his head.

He doesn’t tell them the second day either, because it’s only from twelve till four and he’ll be home before they get back from Kensington anyway.

After that, it becomes too easy to hide.

He’s not hiding, though. Not exactly. Just…putting off telling them until he has his thoughts in order. It’s what he tells himself when he sneaks out of the flat once Freddie and Roger have left, and back in hours later, hoping they aren’t home. It’s not a lie if he doesn’t let himself feel bad about it.

 

On the Friday, John doesn’t work, and the stall is dead quiet due to the building rain.

Freddie calls it an hour in.

They run like schoolchildren in what is very well the beginnings of a thunderstorm down the side-streets, and reach the building in record time, stumbling over wet jeans and shoes while  slicking rain off their clothes. It’s soaked through, but Roger continues all the way up to their floor, moaning about his blazer being pure some-fabric-or-other.

Freddie tells him to shut it, shaking water out of his own wet hair, and unlocks the door for them all. Roger marches off toward the bathroom as soon as he’s inside. The shower turns on moments later, echoing around the flat via the open door.

John can feel water droplets sliding down his hair and onto his skin where the locks rest over his shoulders. He isn’t wearing a blazer, just a thin silky shirt borrowed from Freddie’s luxurious trove of clothes. He turns his head to face his friend, who’s simply standing sopping wet in the lounge, and John notes that if this were a cartoon, there’d be a large puddle forming on the floorboards beneath him.

John pats his backside, and is pleased that at least that part of him is dry - his smokes are tucked in his back pocket. He takes them out, motioning to the table.

“Smoke, Fred?”

Freddie draws his gaze from the bathroom door, looking rather envious at being deprived of first shower. He nods, and a few droplets fall from his fringe onto his shirt.

“Please, Deaky.” He says, and they sit.

 

It’s difficult holding the smoke with wet fingers, but John finds if he doesn’t roll it around or exchange hands the way he normally does then it’s not too bad. The wet patches on the white roll dry up once the burning end reaches it anyway.

Freddie is holding his cigarette with his thumb and forefinger, pinching the filter like a joint, and it tugs a smile at the corner of John’s mouth and a question into his head.

“Fred…Why’d you start smoking?”

Freddie peers at him curiously. Then he brings his fingers to his lips, inhales, and exhales across the table. “Social circles. It’s a little something to do together when you’re all talking, you know?”

John shakes his head, laughing. “Nah, not really. No friends, you know.”

Freddie smacks him playfully on the wrist. “Stop that shit.”

John shrugs, keeping his smile.

“Well why’d you start, then?” Freddie asks.

John thinks for a moment. “Something to do with my hands.” He says, then laughs at himself for how silly it sounds.

Freddie laughs with him. It’s overtaken by a loud grunt from the bathroom.

“Think he’s doing something with his hands, too.” Freddie notes, and John doubles over.

 

Roger must’ve heard their cackling, because he calls out, sounding echoey but still clearly annoyed.

“I’m not fucking wanking, you know! The bloody shower-head’s fallen on my head again!”

That only makes Freddie laugh harder, and John thinks if he leans forward any more he’s going to be lying atop the table.

“I told you to tighten it!” He calls back.

“I did! I twisted the fucking thing and it still doesn’t stay up!”

“Well get your hand on the right rod and maybe you’ll fix the problem!”

“I’m _not bloody wanking!_ ” Roger shrieks,  and the pitch of it has John falling off his chair, cig held up high so he doesn’t damage it.

The pipes shudder, then squeal, and the shower stops altogether for a several seconds.

“Oh for _fucks_ sake!”

“Roger, what did you do?!”

 

The water turns back on, and the sound of the spray has Freddie relaxing back into his chair - God help Roger had he done any lasting damage.

John picks himself up from the floor, grin still plastered over his face.

Freddie smiles at him.

“Things are going okay for you then?” He gestures toward the hall with his shoulder. “You know.”

John takes his hand, pulling him up the rest of the way. He follows Freddie’s notion to the hall, where the bathroom is tucked away behind the wall, hiding Roger from their eyes.

“I hope so.” He says. “Has he said anything?”

Freddie waves his hand through the air, trailing smoke along with it. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You love getting involved,” John counters.

“Yes, but not when things drag on so long. I like my feuds sharp and punchy.” Fred says, taking a drag. “Not literally, of course. Though it would be funny to see you two come to blows. You’re both so gangly.”

John flicks his cigarette at him.

 

That night, both clean from long showers, Roger lights a cigarette in bed. He passes it over John silently, tapping his his mouth with his fingers to tell him to ‘open up’.

John does.

He drags at the smoke, which doesn’t leave Roger’s fingers, and exhales around Roger’s digits. When he doesn’t move his hand away, John pokes his tongue out to lick a stripe up Roger’s index finger.

“Hey!”

John just opens his mouth and bites at him. Roger jerks his hand away, causing his teeth to softly scrape along the skin of his wrist.

Roger puts the cig back in his own mouth. “Can’t just…lick me.”

John rolls from his back to his side so he’s facing Roger.

“Why not?”

Roger stammers. “Cause, you know-”

John smirks. “Cause you didn’t get to have a wank in the shower and you’re a hairpin trigger at the moment?”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like Freddie.”

“Freddie talks about your dick a lot, does he?” He teases, stretching his arm out comfortably behind his head.

Roger groans, and leans over to ash his smoke. “I liked you better when we weren’t talking.” He says, and John’s smile drops.

Roger looks down at him in the lamplight, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

The apology has John’s head reeling. “Sorry?”

Roger goes quiet, then sighs. “I’m sorry I’ve been bitchy. I think…part of it really is that I’m just pent up.”

“As in…”

“Yeah, as in. It’s not funny, John, it’s been a month since- well, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” John says, and then he laughs, because he’s really having this conversation with Roger. “You’re the only person I’ve…as in-ed.”

Roger snorts. “Not yet,” He says, and his tone carries a laugh.

“The other night-” John begins, because it feels comfortable enough and he needs to know…

“Please don’t bring that up,” Roger says, crushing his cigarette into the cup on the bedside.

“Why not?” John frowns.

“Cause,” Roger says, but he doesn’t sound mad. “It’s embarrassing.”

It’s John’s turn to snort this time - the noise comes out like a grunted laugh, and he rolls his eyes. “Happened to me.”

Roger stills with his hand on the switch of the lamp. He shuts it off, and the room is plunged in darkness. He doesn’t lay down just yet.

“That’s different, though.”

“How?”

“Deaks, fuck, can we not talk about this? It’s not exactly helpful reminding me how long it’s been.”

“Why don’t you just…go find someone.” John says, and immediately regrets it, because that’s exactly what he doesn’t want Roger to be doing. To his relief, Roger shakes his head.

“Can’t. It wouldn’t…” He trails off.

Realisation washes over John’s head like the cold rain from earlier.

“You want to. With me.”

Roger chokes on his own spit.

“What?”

“You asked me. When you were drunk that night. Do you remember?”

“No, I don’t.” Roger says, but it’s a little too sure for John to believe him.

John sits up, then, shoving the covers down from his chest so they sit in his lap. He’s shoulder to shoulder with Roger, head turned his way even if he can’t see him.

“You do.” He repeats.

Roger shifts beside him. He makes a noise, mumbling something, but John doesn’t quite catch them.

“What was that?”

“I said it’s not like you said yes, anyways.” Roger says under his breath.

John bites the inside of his cheek, because of course he’s managed to twist the mood into some unsatisfactory, obtuse thing after such a relaxed afternoon.

“You were drunk.” He says simply, voice void of the teasing tone it carried moments before.

Roger turns to him - he can feel the way the bone of his shoulder knocks against his own as he does.

“That’s the only reason?” Roger asks tentatively.

“Rog…”

“Was that the only reason you said no?” Roger repeats, insistent.

John lets his teeth go from where they’ve latched onto his lip, licking over the area before he speaks. “I didn’t say no.”

 

Roger shifts again, and John is suddenly aware of warm breath fanning over his face. A cold hand snakes up the side of his neck, coming to rest under his chin, tilting it up slightly.

“Rog?” John croaks out, voice strained a touch by the angle.

“I want to kiss you,” Roger says, voice hushed by the dark, “Can I please?”

John feels Roger’s thumb brush up against his bottom lip, and he finds himself saying yes.

“Go on, then.”

Roger does.

 

It’s hurried, and urgent, his mouth open partly with each messy kiss he places on John’s lips. John tries to match it, but Roger is moving so furiously against him it’s like he’s trying to speak _into_ him.

John pulls back, leaving Roger chasing him with his mouth. He places a gentle hand on Roger’s chest to keep him at bay while he catches his breath.

“What is it, Rog?” He asks, because they’ve kissed before, but never like this.

“I like you.” Roger rushes out.

The words take a minute to register in John’s mind when he hears them.

“You what?”

Daringly, Roger leans forward and pecks another kiss at the corner of John’s mouth - whether that was his target or not, John can’t be sure, but he feels his skin warm under Roger’s lips and appreciates the gesture either way.

“I like you,” Roger repeats, slower this time. “I don’t wanna find some girl at a dingy pub to be with for the night. Or a guy, for that matter. I want…I like this. I like coming home to you.”

Roger says it, and the pure domesticity of the statement has John’s heart beating against his ribcage. He moves to kiss him, but Roger turns his head, and his lips graze his cheek.

“And you…?” Roger starts.

“And me?”

“You want me, too?” Roger asks. He sounds cautious. Nervous.

John lets his hand drop from Roger’s chest into his lap, finding his hand atop the covers and tangles his fingers into it.

“I do.” He confirms.

He didn’t know how much he really means it until he says it out loud.

Roger’s fingers tighten against his, and he leans forward, this time reaching his mark and capturing John’s mouth with his own. It’s softer the second time around - sweet and languid, Roger’s lips slightly dry and his own wet from licking at them. It’s a bit uncoordinated in the dark, but they find a rhythm, eventually slotting their lips together in long, drawn out caresses.

It’s perfect, John thinks.

 

He considers, then, telling Roger about his job, about why he’s been  distant, that he does want to move in; Tell him everything he’s been insecure about.  He wants to be able to pull his ribcage apart and just show him—a wordless display that’ll leave him completely open; at Roger’s mercy, but willingly so.

But that would mean pulling away, and he isn’t ready to do that yet. The tingles Roger’s mouth is sending all through his body is enough of an incentive to stay. He brings his free hand up to the back of Roger’s head in an effort to pull him closer. His nails catch on Roger’s scalp, and Roger groans. The noise causes John to freeze.

Roger brings his hand up to cover John’s.

“Pull it.” He says into John’s mouth.

John is shocked at how breathy his voice is.

“Go on, pull it,” Roger says again, his breath hot on John’s lips. “Feels good.”

John doesn’t know what to say to that. So he does it, curling his fingers into a section of Roger’s hair and tugs down.

The sound Roger makes has any other thoughts disappearing from his mind instantly.

Tomorrow, John tells himself. He’ll tell him everything tomorrow.

Roger swings a leg around John’s two, effectively straddling him, and—

Yeah, that’s Roger’s cock, hard and heavy against his hip.

John’s brain kicks into gear, because Roger’s gotten off beside him before, but he’s never actually touched him. Roger seems to want to remedy this right away, given the way his mouth is back on him, kissing along his jaw and down to his neck. He bites at John’s collarbone rather hard, and John gasps, jolting underneath Roger’s frame.

He doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath from Roger when he does it.

John - slowly - lets his hand move from Roger’s head, ignoring the whine of protest he gets for it, and latches it over Roger’s hip, pulling him forward ever so slightly. The uncertainty he feels pays off in the form of Roger’s understanding. He moves, and  lets himself be guided, rolling his own hips to gain a type of pressure against John’s flat stomach.

In return, John bucks up into the firm, almost too-bony muscle of Roger’s arse, tilting his head up to find his mouth. They come together sloppily, more tongue than anything else, and Roger moans into it, mouth falling open to allow John to lick into him.

They’ve barely fallen into a type of stilted rhythm when there’s a loud bang.

“Oi! Shut up, Rog!” Freddie’s voice cuts through the other side of the wall. “I know that’s you whining - Deaky’s voice isn’t that high!”

 

They freeze, stopping the movements that had just started to work John into a semi. Roger groans, letting his head fall onto John’s shoulder, muttering a “Fucks’ sake.”

There’s another bang. “I said no! No sex while I’m awake, you randy bastards!”

John, despite himself, laughs.

Roger bites his collarbone in a way that has John’s giggle fading into the very noise Roger’s just been told off for. He clamps his mouth shut.

“God, it’s like having my mum next door,” He whispers, and Roger bites him harder.

When he pulls back, John feels Roger’s cock shift against his belly. He flexes his fingers where they rest on the thin waistband of Roger’s underwear, pinching them so he can snap them back against his skin.

 

“Do you think you’d be able to get these off while sitting on me?” He asks, surprising himself with the question.

Roger moves his mouth away from John’s neck. “Huh?”

“I wanna try something,” John clarifies. “But you’ve gotta be quiet. And take these off.”

He snaps the elastic again, and Roger swats at his hand. He seems to understand what John is meaning, though, because he lifts his hips ever so slightly, tugging John’s hand back towards his hips.

“Pull ‘em down for me.” He says, and John does it.

They get stuck at his thighs, so Roger kicks a leg out and manoeuvres the elastic out and over one foot, then the next, and then he’s tossing the pair across the room. He nestles back down into John’s lap, and his movements are slightly more tentative than before.

He’s naked, John realises. He’s got Roger, naked from the waist down, sitting in his lap. The thought - and the feeling of the other man’s erection pushing against the fabric of his t-shirt - has him hardening in his shorts. One thin layer of fabric between him and Roger’s arse.

Later, John thinks, and moves his hand down to curl around Roger’s cock.

“What’re you- oh, fuck, Deaks.”

John brings his other hand up to clasp over Roger’s mouth.

“Shh, Rog, or Freddie’s next move’ll to be kick the door down,” John whispers, his grip flexing around Roger’s dick but not moving just yet.

He doesn’t actually know what he’s meant to do, because it’s just a cock - he’s touched his own enough times to know his way around one - but this one belongs to Roger. He wants it to be good.

He feels Roger nod under his hand, so he brings it down, resting it with his fingers splayed out across his bare thigh.

“I’ll be quiet.” He promises. “Get me off, please.”

That’s all the confirmation John needs.

He adjusts his grip, trying to find any veins with his fingertips, and drags his hand up. It’s dry, so the skin moves a little too much with him, but Roger seems to like it nevertheless. John spits on his hand anyway - something that’s always seemed so dirty to him, but feels so natural now that he’s doing it - and brings the slick of his palm across the head of Roger’s dick. He cups his hand, rotating his wrist a little, pushing down so Roger can buck up into it before he slides it back, forming a fist around Roger’s shaft once more. He jerks him the way he does himself - tight, not too fast, rolling his wrist every now and then. His nail catches on Roger’s foreskin on an upstroke, and he’s about to whisper out an apology when Roger groans.

It’s quiet, but John doesn’t want to risk a robed Fred bursting in with Roger naked and panting in his lap.

“Shh, sweetheart,” He stops his movements, murmuring the words into Roger’s open mouth.

Roger’s lips brush against his when he speaks. “I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, please keep going.”

He jerks his hips up into John’s hand, and John tightens his fist, letting him do it. Roger’s pants are hot and breathy over his face, the barest of whines working their way out of his throat. He bites them off, swallowing down the sounds each time they threaten to spill out. It’s a litany for only John to hear.

Roger’s movements start to slow, his hips rolling up into John’s fist, so he begins to work back against him, matching his pace. Roger shakes his head, hair brushing across John’s face. John leans forward to kiss him, but Roger turns his head to the side.

“Faster,” He says, voice barely quiet enough to be called a whisper.

John tightens his grip, tugging Roger harder when his hips stop moving completely.

“My legs are tired. Please, faster,” Roger whines, finally finding his mouth and latching onto his bottom lip.

John rolls his eyes, and he’d jokingly call him lazy if Roger wasn’t working his lip between his teeth in a way that hurts, but feels so good. It’s not hard to see how Roger gets his way more often than not.

John complies, picking up the pace, working his hand faster around Roger’s cock. He forgoes any kind of technique - not that he’d be able to manage it with as hazy as his brain is right now - instead focusing on getting Roger off just like this. He shifts forward, his own dick rubbing against Roger’s arse in a way that has him biting his tongue.

He starts moving under him, rubbing himself off on Roger’s arse, wishing the scratch of the fabric of his shorts would disappear. It’s difficult, though, and Roger’s heavy. His legs tire out before than he can find a proper angle. He huffs out a breath of frustration into Roger’s hair and clenches his fist in a way that has to be painful. Roger hisses, but doesn’t complain - John does it again, just to hear that same noise, then lets up, moving his other hand faster, building up to the rhythm he set before.

Roger’s breathing picks up along with it. His breaths are hot and sharp in John’s ear, the faint noises a kick in John’s gut, spurring him on.

John moves his head to the side, pressing firm kisses to Roger’s slack mouth. Roger responds in earnest, tonguing around John’s lips until he gains access inside. It’s lazy, messy, wet. Roger’s tongue is hot where is licks into him, mingling with his own every now and then.

John’s breaks away, breathless, and leans his head down to rest against Roger’s chest. The muscles in his arm are tiring, but Roger isn’t close to coming yet. He mouths at the fabric under him, pleased to find the hard point of Roger’s nipple with his tongue. He wets it with his spit through Roger’s shirt, pinching it between his teeth lightly.

Roger moans - a straight-up, pornographic moan that bounces of the walls of their shared bedroom, and brings his hand up to tug at John’s hair.

“More. Please, more,” He says, and John thinks it sound rather close to begging.

John moves his mouth away from Roger’s nipple.

“You need to be quiet, Rog.” He warns.

Roger exhales sharply at a particularly hard tug to his cock - they’re slower, now, but still present.

“Need more,” He repeats, and his voice is only a fraction quieter. It seems he has no control over his volume when he’s like this, John notes.

John lifts his head and presses a kiss to the shell of Roger’s ear. “My arm’s kinda sore, Rog.”

Roger whines. “Need more, please, wanna come. Make me come.”

John has an idea, then, and it’s not something he’s ever dreamed about doing - his fantasies have had him on the receiving end, but right now, in reality, the roles are definitely switched.

He takes his hand off Roger’s cock, and wants to laugh at the cut off “N-” that escapes Roger’s mouth.

He pushes him back with that same hand, covered in drying spit, and finds he has to push Roger harder than he expected.

“What?-”

“Go on, lie down,” John whispers.

Roger goes. John follows him - his legs are trapped partway under Roger’s back, and it doesn’t seem like it’d be too comfortable, but he doesn’t pay too much mind to it. He knocks Roger’s knees to either side, making room for his shoulders - they aren’t broad, something he used to be self conscious about, but now they allow him to fit perfectly between Roger’s legs.

“John, what-”

John wraps his lips around the head of Roger’s cock.

Whatever words Roger was going to say dissipate into a drawn out groan, and John’s hand flies up to smack over his mouth. They miss by a few millimetres, leaving his middle and forefinger pressing against Roger’s bottom lip. He sucks them into his mouth without a second thought.

John groans at the feeling of Roger’s tongue swirling around his fingertips, and as a result Roger bucks up into his mouth - he pulls back immediately. Roger is a lot thicker than he initially felt in his hand, and the stretch of his lips feels obscene. He delves back down, sticking his tongue out to lap at the sides of Roger’s cock instead, his hand holding the base to keep it in place.

The vibrations of Roger’s whines reverberate along his arm.

John takes that as a ‘that’s good’, so he opens his mouth, dragging his lips alongside Roger’s shaft - the skin there is impossibly soft, and John thinks it feels just like Roger’s mouth, in a way. Growing bolder, he tries again at sucking the tip into his mouth, using his tongue to lap at the head.

Roger bucks up again, but he’s prepared for it this time - he keeps his lips over his teeth and breathes in deeply though his nose, letting Roger inch forward into his mouth. He starts working him from the base up to the point where his cock disappears into him, jerking him as best he can given all his focus is on keeping his breathing steady.

Roger keeps moving, his hips jolting every now and then like he’s trying not to push too far - something John is very grateful for. He isn’t exactly sure what to do with his mouth, but the way Roger is reacting to the simple up-down drag of his lips and the swirl of his tongue tells him he’s doing something right.

He continues like that, working Roger faster on the skin he has access to with his hand. Roger starts squirming. A hand ghosts over John’s head but doesn’t press down - just rests lightly on top of his hair, combing it back from his face. John pulls his fingers from Roger’s mouth so he can bring it down to his own erection, and immediately hears Roger gasp.

“Fuck, John. Fuck. Your mouth, I'm—I’m gonna c-come soon if you don’t stop,” Roger stammers.

John wants to pull off to say something snarky, because that’s exactly the point of him doing this - instead he sucks harder, and the feeling of a hand tightening in his hair has him doing it again, and again.

He tugs at his own cock with hurried, ungraceful movements, his entire body buzzing at the feeling of doing something so filthily intimate. He’s close to orgasm himself, despite not having had any direct contact for most of the night, and knows he decides he _needs_ Roger to come with him.

He can’t exactly speak, so he gets his point across by pushing his tongue down into Roger’s slit, licking surely around the area as best he can while still bobbing his head. He can’t go any deeper, afraid of pushing himself too far and running out of air, but he hopes his enthusiasm - and his tongue - make up for that.

Roger’s grip tightens impossibly in his hair, pulling it from the root at the top of his head, and the sting of pain only adds to the mixture of sensations John is feeling right now.  His teeth scrape along Roger’s soft skin, and he licks at the spot as an apology.

 

The taste of Roger’s come explodes onto his tongue with no warning whatsoever.

John coughs, pulling back, and finds he doesn’t know what to do other than swallow the liquid. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

John feels Roger’s hand meet his own, still wrapped around the base of his cock, and he unfurls it, clutching John’s fingers into his own.

John fists at his own cock faster, clenching down around himself at the last few strokes that have him  spilling into his hand. He shudders, stroking himself through the aftershocks, then collapses forward onto Roger’s chest, spent.

Roger’s fingers find his hair, and he combs through it with gentle, careful movements.

They don’t move for a while.

 

When John shifts, Roger lets out a soft whine.

“What?” John croaks, his voice crackly from misuse.

“You were leaning on my dick,” Roger tells him, and manages to roll out from under John with only a small amount of kicking. John sits up, feeling dizzy and exhausted and completely elated.

He’s sweaty and covered in spit and spunk and feels overall gross, but when Roger returns to his lap, tucking his head into the dip his neck and shoulder make, he knows he won’t be getting up to have a shower anytime soon.

They can change the sheets in the morning.

 

 

Roger falls asleep on his chest, breathing so deeply John is sure he’s passed out.

He can feel his heartbeat, strong and sure through his chest, beating onto his own. John wonders if they’ll begin to beat in time if he stays there long enough - then decides no, they won’t, because that’s not how biology works, and the thought is too romantic for the amount of fluids on him right now.

He pets Roger’s forehead with the back of his hand, smoothing away nonexistent worry lines, and uses his other hand to try and shove him gently off.

He doesn’t move an inch.

Roger is a dead weight on top of him, which means John has to put his whole body into rolling him to the side, then off his chest. He falls the final centimetre onto John’s side of the bed without so much as a stir from sleep. John pokes at his side, because he isn’t really that asleep, is he?

Roger lets out a loud snore.

John pulls his hand away, shaking his head in a way that’s admittedly fond.

He doesn’t bother being too careful getting out of bed, knowing now that Roger definitely won’t be waking up because of a dip in the mattress.

The floorboards are cold when his feet hit them - he finds himself wishing he had some of those old lady slippers Fred has in his room. He wonders if he can get him a pair, wherever he got them. Maybe some nice grey ones.

As it is now, he braves the cold, standing fully out of bed, and heads to the bathroom in a quick, sound-conscious shuffle. He flicks the light on after he’s shut the door in case Freddie is still awake.

 

The tap doesn’t groan when he turns it, thankfully, and he makes quick work of washing his hands with the cold water - he ducks his head under the stream and swallows a few mouthfuls, too. The taste on his tongue hasn’t gotten any better after sitting there for ten minutes while Roger dozed off.

He takes the cap off his toothpaste and rubs it over his teeth with his fingers, sloshes it around a bit with the water, then spits.

He turns the tap off and stands, shaking the water from his fingertips.

 

Catching sight of himself in the mirror is a trip.

His hair is a mess, tangled at the back where Roger knotted his fingers in it. There are pink lines on his neck where Roger has bitten - no purple, thankfully - and his mouth.

His mouth is red raw; lips kiss-swollen and dark, the skin around it pink from the scrape of teeth and mixed saliva.

He brings a hand to cover it, lips turning up into a shocked smile, because God, he’s never had pash rash before. It’s almost exciting, if he weren’t twenty and well past the age of learning how to kiss.

He ignores that last thought, because he can’t find any excuse in him to be in a bad mood right now. Even his latent anxieties stay in the back corners, leaving his respite from his ongoing melancholy uninterrupted. It feels good. It doesn’t feel like an event, like he thought each sexual act needed to be when he was younger, and missed out on during his teenager years. It feels…natural.

He supposes this is what it’d be like to be one of those normal couples. The ‘boy and girl’ type. Or ‘man and lady’, even. A timeline that folds out on its own,  with sex and marriage and cars and kids.

He wonders where Ian’s daughter was at on her timeline when she got pregnant. How old she is, having babies of her own. If she’s their age, attending uni part time and struggling with rent, needing that extra bit of help to shift from being a daughter to a mum.

He wonders what that’d be like. If he could be a dad so young.

Not that Roger can have babies. Or that he’s thinking about having them with him.

It’s all related thought, John tells himself, and strips out of his shorts.

 

His washcloth is still wet from his shower, so he makes quick work of scrubbing himself down, paying attention to the hairs that lead up to his belly button that seem to have caught  most of the result of him getting off while hunched over like that.

He rinses off the cloth, runs the bar of soap through the fibres a few times, and wrings it out.

He makes sure it doesn’t drip at all before walking the short journey back to his bedroom.

Roger is still asleep when he gets to the bed - not that John expected him to wake up in the few minutes he was gone - except he’s splayed out on his front now, arms above his head, tucked under the pillow. John’s pillow.

The low light coming from the open doorway John is standing in casts just the right amount of soft shadows over Roger to have him looking like a painting. One where the colours are all deep browns and blacks and the meaning is obscure but the men in them are almost always angels.

John can see now where some of their inspiration might’ve come from.

He knows he won’t be able to move Roger fully, so he shoulders him as gently as he can until he’s on his side, still sleeping peacefully, and runs the cloth down his front. It’s tricky, given his skin is obscured by his shirt and the covers and the mattress itself, but he cleans up what he can access as best he can. He dips the cloth in the gap between Roger’s legs and feels the redness start to rise on his cheeks.

It worsens when he remembers that Roger isn’t all that messy, seeing as John swallowed.

He takes the cloth away with a prominent blush now on his cheeks.

 

He isn’t wearing pants, and his shorts are still on the bathroom floor - not exactly a great place if he doesn’t want questions from Fred. He fumbles around in the chest of drawers for another pair of shorts - longer ones, which aren’t as soft - but can’t find them. He ends up pulling a pair of Roger’s underwear from the top drawer and putting them on instead. Despite being a centimetre or so taller, and slightly different in shape - meaning he’s always thought Roger’s had a nicer—and rounder—arse than him - they fit fine. It’s odd having something so tight around his junk at night time given he hasn’t worn undies to bed since he was a preteen, but it’s also nice wearing something of Roger’s. Even if it is a bit weird that it’s his underwear.

John takes the cloth back to the bathroom, rinses it out, and throws it on the floor of the shower so he knows not to use it in the morning. His shorts are gathered up and thrown in the corner of the bedroom, along with his shirt, which feels too sweaty and gross now that the bottom half of him is clean. He doesn’t bother trying to find another to put on. He figures he’ll be warm enough with Roger around him, leeching his body heat.

He shuts the door with a gentle ‘click’ and crawls back into bed,  placing a soft kiss to some part of Roger’s face once he’s lying down, cover’s tucked up around his chin.

Of all things, that’s what wakes him.

Roger stretches, his breath catching in a soft whine as he does. His arms reach out toward John automatically, like Roger’s first instinct on waking is to find the nearest source of warmth. Or to find John.

Roger’s fingers find John’s bare chest, and he wraps himself around it, lifting his head minutely so it’s now resting on the meat of John’s upper arm. Definitely one of the two, John thinks. Though he’d like to think it’s just him.

John’s hand absently cards through the messy hair at the back of Roger’s head.

“You ‘wake?”

Roger responds in the form of a kiss into the side of his pec.

At the risk of being called a sap by nobody, John strains his neck so he can press another kiss to Roger’s head.

He isn’t quite sleepy in the way Roger is, but he’s tired, and comfortable, and knows if he falls asleep like his he’ll probably have a dead arm by morning given how heavy Roger’s head is. It’s worth it just to have him close.

“You’ve got no shirt on.” Roger comments.

“You’ve got no pants on,” John pats at his bare leg, earning a soft, sleepy chuckle from Roger.

“We’re almost naked.”

“Hm?”

“No pants, no shirt. We’re like a naked guy…but two guys.”

John laughs soundlessly, and wraps his arms around Roger’s lithe body. It dislodges his head from where it was nuzzled against him, but Roger quickly corrects it, turning so that he’s on his side.

“Roll over,” He says, pushing John’s shoulder.

John turns, now in the exact position Roger sleeps in every night. He feels cold fingertips dance across his ribcage as Roger slots himself behind him. He tugs Roger’s wrist down around him properly.

“Oh, you’re holding me now, s’that right?”

“S’Right. Figure I should treat the guy who’s just given me an amazing blowie with a bit of love and tenderness.”

John’s heart skips at that one word.

His face scrunches up at the others.

“You hold all your guys like this, Rog?” He asks softly, only half joking.

“Nah,” Roger’s arm flexes around him. “You’re my only guy, Deaks.”

John flushes, because it’s corny, and it’s exactly what he needed to hear.

“You’re a bit of a sap, you know.”

“I blame you. You’ve made me go soft.”

“Yes, that’s generally what happens after an orgasm.” John says, and there's a second of silence before they both burst out laughing.

Roger shakes behind him, and John can feel exactly what’s between his hips through the tight fabric of the underwear, but he’s too bloody content where he is to even think about having another go.

He sighs the last laugh out of his lungs, relaxing back against Roger’s chest. He’s been held like this once before, but it feels different now. Less like they’ve just arranged themselves for sleeping and more like they’re cuddling. Nestled into each other without an excuse.

Roger’s shaky, silent laughter stills, and he pulls John impossibly closer - close enough he knows he’ll have to shuffle forward from if Roger wants any kind of breathing room during the night.

“I haven’t actually done that before,” He says, his tone turned thoughtful.

John half-turns.

“You haven’t?”

“Not with a bloke, I mean. You’d be—You’re my first.”

John feels a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. It’s not that big a deal for Roger, who’s done a whole lot more than John’s ever considered - but he knows it’s important to John. It’s that notion that makes that swell return beneath his ribcage.

“You’re mine, too, you know.” John tells him, though Roger knows.

Roger bumps the back of his head with his forehead.

“Good.”

 

A few minutes go by like that - just breathing in silence, letting the dark turn into a presence that slowly presses down on them, pushing them through the fibres of the mattress and into the crossover of awake and asleep.

John is tapping on Roger’s lightly scarred knuckles when he has a thought.

“Hey, Rog?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think Fred is asleep?” He asks.

Roger is quiet for a moment, then says, “Nah. He’s wide awake, plotting how to poison our eggs for breakfast.”

John pokes him. “But we don’t have any eggs.”

“Then he’s gonna outright kill us. With the heel of his shoes, probably.”

Roger brings his hand up to John’s side to tickle him. “Don’t worry about it. He’s used to it by now.” He says, then stops his fingers.

John wriggles under his hands.

“It’s alright, Rog. I don’t mind, y’know.”

“About what?”

John rolls his eyes, because Roger has never been any good at hiding the way he feels about something, whether it’s about him or not.

“About you, having a few partners.”

“S’not just a few.”

“I know that. I knew that before…”

“Before?”

“Well, all this.” John finishes. He’d wave his hand out to gesture if they weren’t tucked under the quilts.

Roger slides his hand back down John’s chest, coming to clutch at his fingers. John’s skin tingles where Roger’s nails dragged along it.

“I really do think Fred is planning my murder.” He says, veering the topic back to light, pre-sleep territory.

John hums.

“Cause now I’m not only keeping him up - I’m defiling his sweet, darling Deaky.”

Roger’s voice is a growl in his ear. The pitch of it stirs something inside John, and he shifts.

“You haven’t exactly defiled me yet,” He says, and Roger’s laugh is just a burst of hot breath against his hair.

“What was all that then?”

“That was…a light sullying.”

Roger seems to mull it over.

“I can accept a light sullying.”

“You can accept it, can you?” John raises his eyebrows lazily, though Roger can’t see it. “I do believe it was _me_ sullying _you_.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me.” Roger tells him.

It sounds a lot more sincere than the current conversation topic allows.

“That is if Fred hasn't killed me by morning.” Roger adds, and John is giggling again.

“He can probably hear us talking right now, if he is awake,” John comments, eyes looking around the room as if he’s going to find Freddie there.

He half expects a bang on the wall and a loud, ‘Yes, I can!’ From Freddie through the plaster, exasperated and overly dramatic. Whether he’s asleep or awake, there's no noise from the other room.

Roger’s fingers trace patterns over his ribs, and he finds himself thanking his friend for being a grot - however which way - and having to throw out his couch cushions.

 

“He’s totally awake. Watch y’r cuppa in the morning - probably arsenic in it.” Roger says, and promptly falls asleep.

John follows not too long after.

 

 

 

-

 

In the morning, Freddie doesn’t wake till half seven.

Roger paces about his front door, frustrated by but abiding the ‘no entering the room until I’ve left it’ rule. He settles for kicking and banging on it with his fists at intervals, with the occasional shout of, “Fred, you fucking toss, we’re late!”

Despite his efforts, it still takes till 7:34am for Freddie to fling his bedroom door open, robed and slipper-ed, a wild look in his eyes.

Roger jumps back as soon as the door disappears from under his knuckles.

Freddie looks as if he’s about to lunge in him.

Instead, he calmly strides into the kitchen, chin pointed up in a way that can’t mean anything good, and flicks on the kettle.

John shys into his seat.

 

Freddie waits until the kettle has started to creak and whine, the metal expanding under the heat - an apt metaphor - before he speaks.

“Do you know, Deaky, why we have house rules?” He says, far too calmly.

John looks up from the table, face purposely blank - he doesn’t know whether to laugh or start running, so he opts for neutrality.

“There are house rules, Fred?”

“Yes, there are bloody fucking well house rules!”

“They weren’t put down on paper,” Roger says from the door.

“You shut up, Roger! I tell you every time, just wait till I’m asleep before you go whining like you don’t know how to hold your breath! Is it that hard?” 

Roger says, “It was pretty hard, yeah,”

The same time John says, “Sorry, Fred.”

And they both look at each other. Roger cracks a grin.

“You should really be blaming Deaky, Fred.” He says, and John scowls at him. Roger just winks. “It’s his mouth that kept you up, not mine.”

“John!”

“ _Roger_!”

 

Freddie looks between them, scandalised, but a smile is creeping its way into his face.

“My wallflower isn’t so shy after all? Do tell, Rog,”

John shoots him a look, the beginnings of embarrassment starting form at the tips of his ears.

“Do _not_ , Roger.”

The smile Roger gives him makes him want to clamp a hand over his mouth to shut him up. Maybe shove him back onto the bed and keep him pinned there for a while. He’d be able to, he reckons. Roger has muscles hidden in him somewhere, but John has willpower, especially when it regards things he doesn’t want spouted out in the kitchen of the flat.

Even if Freddie’s heard most of it firsthand.

He blushes at his own thought, and brings a hand up over his face to groan into it.

He needs a cup of tea.

 

“Fred, you don’t happen to have any arsenic laying around, do you?” He asks.

Freddie grins at him.

“I think I’ll skip the tea this morning, thanks.”

Roger laughs. “Skip the whole breakfast while you’re at it. We really are late.”

“Oh, fuck them. We’re at that bloody stall at the same time each week, whoever it is that desperately needs to buy an overpriced coat from us can wait till I’ve had a smoke and a tea.” Freddie says.

John watches Roger contemplate it for a minute. He pulls a Slim from his own pack and hands it out to him, waving it a little, and that seems to decide it.

Roger falls into his favourite chair with a slump.

“Tea nearly ready, Fred?” He asks, leaning forward so John can light his smoke. He puffs a few times and pulls away with a ‘Ta’.

Freddie bends down and plucks it out of his hands.

“Oi!”

Freddie ignores him, taking a long drag. “Tea will be done as soon as I’ve finished infusing it with my Persian voodoo magic.”

“I thought you were from Zanzibar?”

John stifles a laugh.

“Semantics,” Freddie says, “Who’s having some?”

Both John and Roger raise their hands.

 

Once the whistle blows, Freddie pours the boiling water into the pot and stands by it.

“It doesn’t need to brew that long, Fred. We do actually need to leave sometime in the next five years.” Roger says after the first minute.

Freddie leans over him to crush the finished cigarette he’d stolen in the ashtray.

“I make tea the same way every morning, you can’t possibly be complaining about it now.” He says with a roll of his eyes - something Freddie’s always been amazing at.

Odd skill to have.

“Well I hope your ‘ _Persian_ _magic’_ doesn’t have an aftertaste.” Roger grumbles.

“That’s probably what John was thinking last night.”

John chokes on his exhale.

Roger’s eyes flick to him, eyebrows raised, while Freddie breaks out into a cackling laugh at his own joke.

“It wasn’t that bad.” He says quietly, mouth around the end of his cigarette.

He isn’t even sure Roger catches it, but then he catches his eye, and from the way his brows have raised even higher, he knows he did.

Roger, for once, says nothing.

“It seems you’ve rendered him speechless, dear Deaks.” Freddie leans over his shoulder to pinch a smoke from between the cardboard of his own packet. “Shame this isn’t what I heard from you last night, Rog.”

Roger groans.

“No, no, none of that!” Freddie exclaims.

“Freddie you are actually a wanker sometimes,”

“No, I’m fair and reasonable and traumatised by your girly voice!”

“It’s not girly!”

“It is too! You’ve got a lovely choirboy falsetto which means you come with a C6!”

Roger splutters. “Do not- I don’t- don’t say _come_!”

“I’ll say whatever I like as long as you keep going at it when I’m still up. I ought to make an octave range purely based on your little noises.”

“That’s—That’s fucking weird, Fred!”

He breaks his eye contact with Freddie to look down at John, his face both shocked and pleading. “Deaks, help me out.”

John flicks his cigarette, staving off the smirk that wants to display itself on his face.

“It is a bit weird, Fred.” He agrees.

Freddie shakes his head. “Well, I’m going to do it. I’ll write it up with notes and give it to Brian to perform.”

Roger launches into a “Do _not_!—” while Freddie pours the appropriately brewed tea into three cups.

He hands one to John while Roger’s pointed finger chases his movements, continuing his rant about how he ”Only hit a C6 _one_ _time_ and that was while singing and you weren’t even _there_ , Fred!”

John sips at his tea - milk and one sugar - and finds that if there is any voodoo magic in there, he can’t taste it, but he does hope it’ll kill him before he has to hear Freddie explain Roger’s ‘orgasm range’ one more time.

He feels something on his hand, and peers down to see Roger has mingled their fingers together while still turned to look at Freddie.

He turns his wrist so he can hold him properly.

Freddie must notice, because he breaks off his sentence to look between them.

John just offers him a smile.

 

Freddie’s false anger cracks just a little. “Oh you two are sickening.”

“Fuck off, Fred,” Roger says, but he’s smiling.

John knows they both don’t mean it in the slightest.

 

 

They walk to the stall not long after, finely dressed and sucking on pre-work cigarettes.

Roger doesn’t quite hold his hand, but he keeps a close distance, and his fingers brush against his far more than usual.

It’s enough.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☾ 
> 
>  
> 
> Hello hello!  
> How was that? I figured this chap would be short considering I chose to skip my whole planned route of angst (which, if you’re curious, entailed John waking up to Roger dry-heaving at the end of the last chapter and straight up ignoring him out of pure emotional exhaustion. John would’ve gotten gradually more pissed off at Roger’s shitty moods, in retaliation spending more and more time with Brian, away from the flat (and from Roger). I think I planned for John to get drunk about a week into their stand-still while out with Bri and confess his love for Rog, sucking down vodka soda and crying into his straw. You did miss out on drunk!John, but he would’ve been throwing up and not cute at all, so consider it a blessing.)
> 
>  
> 
> Chap title is from the Modern Lovers song (who also have a song called 'I'm Straight' which I put next to each other on my playlist for this fic)
> 
> It’s also worth noting that I think it’s very OOC for Freddie to not care about being late to open the stall but let’s ignore that for the sake of joking around at breakfast time, shall we?
> 
> Let me know what you think, as always. I love you and your wonderful comments ✨


	8. for your love

Freddie takes one look at the Scrabble board and shakes his head.

They’re in their usual prime playing positions: Freddie crouched over his tucked knees like he’s doing yoga, Roger leaning against the back of the couch with his legs splayed out, and John pressed up beside him.

He’s admittedly closer than he’d usually sit, but from this angle he can lean against Roger’s side quite subtly, while appearing like he’s just shifting so he can see the board properly. It’s not on an angle or hard to see at all, but he thinks it’s a good excuse should anyone bring it up. His eyes over to Roger’s tile stand, and he wants to poke Roger at the amazing letters he could’ve - _should’ve_ \- put down. Instead, he’s placed down—

“Boab?”

Freddie stares at it, fingers clicking away at the edge of the cardboard. “Not a word. John, I think it’s time to start taking penalty points. Note down minus four.”

Roger’s head turns to John, eyebrows raised, as if he’s actually going to follow through with it. John raises one of his own at Roger and inches the pen toward the pad in his hand.

“Don’t you dare, John!”

John hits the paper a few times and rolls his eyes. “I’m just stirring you up.”

“Don’t do _that_ , John; I want him as calm and levelheaded as possible when I inevitably win this game. Last time there was far too much storming off.” Freddie says, trying to catch Roger’s eye.

John feels his hand twitch where it’s propping him up on the rug - where John’s fingers are resting over his, hidden from Freddie’s eyes by their bodies.

“Never mind that,” John says, pushing past, “We’re not doing penalty points, and Roger’s word is perfectly fine.”

Freddie looks to him, mouth dropping open. “Deaky, don’t joke with me! Scrabble is a rule-based word game - we can’t just throw the rule part out the window!”

“I’ll throw _you_ out the window if you keep disputing every word I put down!” Roger says, pointing an accusing finger at Freddie.

“I didn’t dispute that one.” Freddie says, and John looks at the word he’s motioning to on the board.

 _Milk_.

John rolls his eyes.

“Point taken, Fred, refrigerated items will be left alone. You going to do the same with flora and fauna?”

“What?”

“A boab is a ruddy great tree in Australia.” Roger explains.

Freddie tosses his head back. “Well how am I supposed to know what random shit the fucking Australians name their trees?!”

John pinches a smile between his lips, and turns to Roger to see him doing the same thing. Once they catch sight of each other, they burst out in laughter. John brings his hand up to cover his mouth, conscious of his teeth, but Roger grabs it as soon as soon as he starts to lift his fingers.

He doesn’t say anything - just brings his hand back down, intertwining them on top of the rug, and looks back over to Freddie.

“Not my fault you never got the history lesson in third form.” He says.

“Roger, what kind of haggard boarding school do you think I went to?”

“I don’t know—One with nuns and ghouls and surrounded by raging seas, the way you’ve described it.”

Freddie flicks a tile off the corner of the board - a blank one he refuses to use as a free letter because it causes too many arguments, especially on whether the letter change should on a persons turn or not. His lips are purses in a way that means he’s not too happy about his current authority over the game, but he’s also got that slight squint to his eyes that John knows to be amusement.

He sighs, sits up a little straighter, and flicks his thick fringe away from his eyes - where it promptly falls back in place.

“It was not, but we certainly didn’t learn about some Australian tree.” He says, then smiles. “Go on and mark it down, Deaky, dear. The points aren’t going to matter when I destroy him on my next turn.”

John marks down the points, and Roger launches into a counter-threat of how he knows "Quite a few words" as he "Did actually go to university".

John takes his turn, adding an _AT_ to Roger's last  _B,_  marks down his own minimal points, and settles further into Roger's side as Freddie gets ready to 'destroy'.

He doesn't blink twice when Roger wraps his arm around him, halfway through a sentence, and pulls him in by his shoulders. John settles his shoulder and half his back into Roger’s chest, leaning back into him.

Freddie responds quick fire with some insult that - John thinks - is totally unrelated, but he sees the smirk in the corner of his mouth when he does. A surprise to himself: John isn't even embarrassed.

 

-

 

 

John doesn't know how he's managed it, or whether it was even him alone that tipped the scales in his favour, but here they all are, in a less than upscale pub with only one beer on tap.

John, Roger and Freddie, ready to watch Brian play a gig.

They’re early, having had Brian pick them up before he went to get Clara so they weren’t late. They could’ve just as easily caught a few buses, but it was nice spending that extra time with Brian, and Clara as well, chatting in the van as they drove toward the pub, just the five of them.

Tim somehow managed to get there before them all, despite not having a car and apparently never leaving the side passenger seat of Brian’s van. John’s glad they got that little bit of solace without him when he does have to wave a shoddy hello from the doors of the pub.

He’s in the corner, gathering wires from the floorboards of the designated stage area, clearing a space around the set-up mic stands.

There doesn’t seem to be enough room - from where John is standing - for a keyboard or even drum set up, and Clara seems to notice it, too, because she steps out from behind Brian with her blonde brows pulled together.

“Is there no more space we can use between here and that wall, Tim?” She asks.

Tim looks up from the black cables in his hands. “No—” He waves his hand around at the floor, “Only what we’ve got here.”

Clara frowns, and John watches Brian’s mouth open as if to speak, but she manages to get in first.

“I feel like we won’t have enough space to properly set up the ‘board - that table and chairs juts in and it doesn’t look like they can come forward any more.” She says kindly, as if this is something Tim might not have thought of.

Maybe he hasn’t. John isn’t lenient enough to give him the doubt, but Clara seems to be. Brian looks down at her as she raises a brow, waiting for a response.

Tim sighs and tosses the now-looped cables behind an amp, facing the small tables and chairs of the pub.

“This is what I could get, Clars. The venue only has a certain amount of space and this is what I’m working with.” He says, imitating her brow raise in a way that doesn’t come across quite as patient as she makes hers seem.

Brian loops his arm around Clara’s shoulder.

“Tim, relax. We will work with it - you should’ve just said the place is too small for keyboards and we could’ve adjusted our set. Or maybe next time book somewhere with more space.” Brian says, soft-spoken as always.

“More space? This is the best I could get for this time and location. It’s not my fault you wanting them close to the queer spots.” Tim says, and turns to fiddle with the height of the mic stand right up front - his own.

Beside him, John feels two very different reactions - one is Roger’s faint laughter bumping against his arm, and the other is Freddie’s purposeful elbow in his side.

His eyes have just met Roger’s, a barely-there amusement on his face, when Brian speaks, snatching his attention.

“That’s absurd, Tim. That’s not...There aren’t even any gay clubs around here, so what are you on about?”

Tim stops. He looks at Brian, chin jutting out and eyes squinted, and then moves his gaze over to John’s left - Freddie.

“You’ve got a problem with Freddie being gay?” Brian says, and astoundingly, sounds like it’s the first time he’s realising it.

Clara’s eyes meet John’s behind Brian and Roger’s back, and that same sympathetic look is on her face. It’s soft, and well-meaning, but it makes John want to scowl. He breaks her gaze before he does just that, and upset the only person privy to what’s been going on - besides Freddie and himself.

Roger bumps him again, and that same nervous half-laugh jumps out of his chest.

“Nah, Bri, it’s fine, yeah? You’re just having a laugh.” Roger says the last part to Tim, nodding his head like he’s going to agree.

John wonders how many times he has done so, after Roger’s given him an out, over and over again.

Tim rests his hand atop the mic stand, leans on it, and clicks his tongue. “I like you, Rog, I do - you’re about the only normal one out of the friends Bri’s brought round. But your other mates, Bri - people are going to start thinking something’s up with you, too, if you keep pulling fags up through the floorboards and into pubs like these.” He motions between John and Freddie, then around the room.

John feels that elbow in his side again.

He doesn’t turn to look at whatever words Freddie is struggling not to say, or up at Tim’s face where he’s probably peering at him the way he’s done before.

He looks at Roger, and feels his gut turn at the smile still on his face.

“It’s fine, Bri.” He repeats. His voice is less sure this time around.

Brian let’s go of Clara’s shoulders so he can bring his arms to cross in front of his chest, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-something. “No, Rog,” He says, and John tenses at the lack of leniency in his voice.

“I’ll say again, Tim: Do you have a problem with Freddie being gay?”

Tim scoffs. “Who doesn’t? Who wants to see that, Bri? He flaunts it like it’s something people want to look at - and you’ve rounded up another one too.” His eyes bore straight into John’s.

John’s face heats, feeling the accusation and unsolicited outing hit him as a double blow.

Brian looks his way, perplexed. “Who...” He stops there, and John knows he’s figured it out.

Brian’s fingers flex against his own forearm.

“You’re out.”

Tim rights himself from his slouched position, eyes wide.

“What?”

“You’re out.” Brian repeats. “You’re out of the band. I don’t want to see you, and I don’t want you to come near my friends until you’ve learned to be a decent human being.”

“Decent? Brian; you’re hanging round with a bunch of fucking sodomists and you want me to act decent?”

“Tim, I’m being serious, go home.”

Tim pushes the stand, and it rocks in place a few times before it settles. “And leave all my shit? Shit I’ve bought?”

Brian shrugs. “Take your bass, I’m not stopping you. But you’re not playing with us again.”

Tim’s jaw tenses, looking from face to face, probably for some kind of back up or opposition to Brian’s hard-set resolve.

He gets none.

Tim backs up, grabs his case, and steps forward, pointing a finger at Brian’s chest - not quite touching him, but close enough to.

“You watch, Bri. Soon you’ll be wishing Clara had a different set down there. That’s how they get you. It’s a seed in your head, mate.” He sneers.

Brian parts his arms, and John thinks that he’s going to hit him - shove him, maybe. But Tim steps back, and Brian does nothing to him.

Tim looks to Roger, and John suddenly has very little knowledge on what his friend is going to do whilst under such a spotlight.

Roger - private and clearly socially straight - says nothing.

It’s his silence that has Tim shaking his head.

“Fuck this.” He says, and he marches between Roger and John, knocking them apart as he heads for the door. The bells rings as he swings it open, and it shuts with him on the outside.

 

Freddie finally pulls his arm away from John’s side.

“Prick.” He says, mouth aimed at the door.

Brian shakes his head. “I’m sorry about that. Clara - Fred, John.”

“It’s fine, Brian,” Freddie assures him. “Thank you for standing up for-” his eyes flick over to John briefly, “Us. You didn’t have to do _that_ , though.”

“No, I did. That’s not...I can’t accept that.” Brian says, and Freddie’s face softens.

“But how will you play your show tonight? That’s a singer and a bassist gone.” He points out.

Brian looks across at Clara, who tucks a ringlet of blonde hair behind her ear and shrugs. John watches the gears tick over in Brian’s head - He tries not to let his eyes wander to Roger too much, in case he notices and tries to talk to him. He isn’t quite sure how he feels about the defining lack of support from Roger. Even if he understands why, it still has him feeling…he doesn’t know exactly how he feels. It’s not sad, but not entirely pleasant.

By the way Freddie is slowly pulling his arm away from his side so he can hold his hand, he seems to get it. John lets his hand be crushed in Freddie’s strong grip and keeps his eyes above Roger’s blond, hairspray-ed mop.

Less than a few seconds later, Brian turns to them, eyes bright and hair bouncing atop his head.

“Fred!”

“Yes?”

“You can sing for us.”

John turns to his friend, whose expressive eyes are narrowed in on Brian.

“Sing what?” Freddie asks.

Clara steps out from behind Brian so she can be seen clearly - her mouth is turned up in a shy smile, showing her wide front teeth and pointy incisors.

“Well, actually, tonight was gonna be our first night playing that song you gave us - the lyrics and piano notes were so wonderful.” She says.

A whole head height above her, Brian nods. “We’ve got to finish setting up pretty soon, so you’re on the spot, but…it’s your song.”

“The rest of the set are covers - you should know them all, but if not Brian can sing them.”

“You know I can’t play bass,” Freddie says.

“I’ll cover it with the keyboard. If we minimise John’s kit I’ll be able to fit along that wall, I’m sure. You’ll have to step around a few cords as you sing, but...” Clara smiles, head tilted forward to indicate she’s ready for Freddie’s answer, if he’s got one, and John finds himself elbowing him.

Freddie smacks his arm, but he flicks his hair out of his face, upper lip pulled down over his teeth. It looks like he’s thinking a great deal over it, which means he’s already made up his mind.

“Alright.” Freddie says, and Clara smacks Brian’s back excitedly.

“Ouch—That’s great, Fred. Really great.” Brian says, bumping an unapologetic Clara with his hip. She bumps him back, though she hits his upper thigh because of her height, and John finds himself smiling at the exchange.

They’re cute together, he must admit.

“I’ll go get the rest of the stuff from the van, then, shall I?” Brian raises his brows down at his girlfriend, and she stops her playful assault to nod.

“I’ll run Fred through the songs - unless you need help?”

“No, no, I’m fine. We’ve got fifteen minutes before the pub opens fully; better use it.”

Clara hums in agreement.

“Are the others getting here anytime soon?”

“Yep, should be walking over now.” Brian ducks down to kiss her forehead, and heads towards the door.

John hears the bell chime as it opens and closes, just as it did before.

He tugs his arm away from Freddie so he can scratch at the skin of his wrist, lightly nudging Roger in the process. Roger half-turns, his hair hiding the side of his face from John’s view, and smiles.

“Did you want a drink?” He asks, and John watches his face for some kind of _something_ behind it, but there is none - just Roger’s wide eyes and his question hanging in the air between them.

The attitude in the room is settled back into a comfortable, casual thing, and nobody seems to be lingering on what’s happened - if they are, it doesn’t show on their faces. It definitely isn’t showing on Roger’s.

John feels his own unsettled feelings stir, causing his wrist to itch again, and wonders if he’s being silly.

“Yeah, ta, Rog,” He says, and tacks on a smile at the end, a little too late to seem natural.

Roger just nods and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He leans in minutely, before pulling back and turning to walk to the bar. The place isn’t technically open, but the bar is running, and the old man hops up off his stool to pour a pint of lager and—he pauses. Roger turns.

“What’re you having again?”

“Oh, erm, a vodka soda, please.” John replies, not wanting to raise his voice too much. He watches the man take out a glass, and corrects himself. “Double shot, please.”

Roger raises his brows. John flushes.

“I can pay for the extra…I’ll just pay.” He mumbles, moving toward the scuffed wood of the bar.

Roger puts his hand on his arm once he’s close enough.

“I’ve got it.” He says.

John shakes his head, and watches Roger look between the bartender, whose brows are furrowing at the two wallets being held up at him, and himself.

Roger squeezes the meat of his upper arm.

“Let me buy you a drink, Deaks.”

He gives him those same eyes he makes every time he tells him to turn over in bed, or asks for his hair to be played with, or when he wants to say something but Freddie’s close by and he knows he’ll hear. John searches hard in the blue for some kind of window into Roger’s thoughts, but they blink away, over to the bartender who’s finished pouring two shots into a glass.

“Tonic okay?” He grunts out.

John nods.

He finishes up by tipping some off-brand tonic water into John’s drink, then tosses the empty bottle into a bin hidden under the bar. Hands exchange a few small notes and two cold drinks, and Roger turns away again, leaning back against the bar.

John is passed his, and he’s sipping deeply at the lip of it as soon as the condensation hits his fingertips.

There’s no lime or ice, and it hasn’t been stirred, but he can taste the vodka like a hit to his tongue, surely there under the flavourless bubble of the tonic. It’s a bitter fume in his throat, burning a little when he breathes. He remedies this by taking another sip.

When he pulls back, he notices he’s taken in half the short glass already.

He flushes, looking around the room at his friends, who aren’t paying any attention to his alcohol consumption, then at Roger, sipping his beer beside him.

He isn’t looking at him, and John wants him to be looking at him. Wants him to stand closer, drink with him, comment on his pants or ask to bum a dart or give him some half look that means he’s going to talk to him later, or that he understands if John is feeling a bit awkward.

John can’t sense what Roger is feeling. He can’t sense what anybody is feeling — no-one can. Right now, he’d give anything to know what thoughts are cycling through the front of Roger’s head. He could mention it—that what took place less than ten minutes ago has him unsettled, if he’s honest, and he just wants a touch of reassurance. Or a literal touch of any sort from Roger. The hand on his arm slipped down after John had agreed not to pay, and he wants it back.

John brings his drink back up to his lips and drinks it down, watching the room come together over the clear rim of the glass.

He swallows down the last dregs and turns to place it gently on the counter.

“Another one, please.” He says, as if Roger won’t hear him if he’s quiet.

He pays, waits, and turns back around with a fresh pour and a blush on his cheeks. The vodkahelps to cool him down as he swishes it around in his mouth.

 

In their corner of the room, Clara and Freddie have shifted some of the equipment to make a space alongside the wall, just as Clara had said. Freddie’s eyes are focused on a piece of paper she’s holding out to him, pointing his finger at various parts of the page all at once.

John catches black polish on his fingernails he doesn’t remember seeing yesterday. It suits him, he thinks.

The bell chimes as Brian opens the door, then sticks his foot out to keep it that way as he smuggles in the folded legs and keyboard. Roger jumps up to help him, and they get it through without a hassle.

In the time it takes to get Clara’s keys hooked up, the remaining band members - John and James, if John remembers correctly - rock up with pink noses and a bottle each in hand. They place them by the door as they come through.

James - a tall, dark-skinned bloke with a red scarf tucked tight around his chin - gives John a nod when he meets his eye. Whether he recognises him from their last gig or he’s just being friendly, John isn’t sure, but he returns it regardless. He keeps his drink tucked tight to his chest as he watches Brian greet his friends, run over the page now in Freddie’s hand, exchange handshakes and nods and eventually a half-hug.

If Tim not being there is an issue, it doesn’t come up once.

John finds out from Roger when he gets back to the bar that they passed him on their way here; pissed off, ranting and generally unpleasant. They spent about half a minute listening before they kept on walking.

The lights outside the pub get switched on a few minutes later, and the band take their places behind their instruments, the buzz of electricity humming out of the amplifiers and speakers mingling with the occasional tap of synth keys or strum of guitar.

They have two guitarists - Brian and James - which doesn’t quite make sense to John for the type of music they play, but then again, he hasn’t heard all of what they can do.

He sips at his drink with measured little gulps as he watches them warm up. The pub steadily fills with one or two couples, then a small group of boys who look just shy of eighteen, and a white-haired old lady who takes her place on the only stool at the bar.

He gets his order in for another vodka right as Clara leads in a melody on the keyboard.

He turns, lips around his beverage, and catches Freddie’s eyes as he steps up to the mic.

What comes out is his poetry, carried on a strong, sure voice that lilts up with the keys, and down with the scratch of guitar that works its way in on the second line.

John’s heard Freddie sing before, but never this way.

It’s as if he’s been hiding a melody and a thousand harmonies inside himself all this time, and now that they’re finally able to be heard, they’re emerging - softly, in tune and flowing so delicately with the music, but still so surely there.

John watches him, captivated, and lets the music swirl with the alcohol inside his head, painting a picture where there’s nobody in the room but him. The rest is sound and colour, and a warm, warm hand on his cheek. Both of his cheeks - holding his chin up to the roof where the lights blend into something blinding.

A transition of several fast guitar notes scratched out at once, leading to the next song - The Carpenters? - has him back in a room filled with people. Filled with Brian and Freddie and somewhere, Roger. John tilts his own head up - imaginary hands leaving his cheeks still burning hot - to look for him, but there are a fair few blond heads in the room that don’t bear his face.

Roger’s elvish nose and soft jawline, impossibly large eyes and sleek limbs, is a combination he’d be able to spot anywhere.

John sips his drink, feeling a hit of pure ethanol slide down his throat, and thinks obviously, the beverages are impairing his sight, because the pub isn’t that large for Roger to go missing.

He frowns, licking the inside of his own mouth to soothe the burn of the drink, and then—There he is, up the front at that problematic table and chairs. There’s a couple sitting in the chairs themselves, and Roger is hunched over the back of one, leaning into a stranger’s side so he can hear, and subsequently laugh at, something he’s said.

John runs his tongue over his teeth.

Roger brushes his hair back, and the girl in the chair opposite him points at him, smiling. They share a joke John can’t hear, and he wants to be over there, sharing it with them.

That’s a lie—He wants to be over there, sitting in that guy’s chair. He wants to be the one Roger is draped over in this public bar, instead of cramped between a woman nursing a Babycham and an underage kid haggling for a 20p lager.

_It’s not…_ his thoughts fade in and out with the intro of the third song, and his—fourth?—drink feels heavy in his hands. _It’s not a big deal._ Never has been a big deal. He just feels affectionate.

He wants to kiss him, he realises.

He’s wanted to, and has done it before, but he wants to again, right now. Part of him hopes Roger’ll feel as exposed as he did the last time he watched Brian play, then takes it back. He doesn’t want to hurt Roger. He just…

He watches Roger drink down a foamy gulp of his beer, eyes focused on the show in front of him.

He wants to go home.

At least there, he can kiss him. He can do whatever he wants and not be told he’s wrong for it. He wonders what he’d be able to do to Roger, if he was allowed. _Is_ he allowed?

John’s eyes focus in on the side of Roger’s face as he turns, eyes searching around the room, face happy and relaxed—His eyes meet John’s, and he smiles. It pushes already forgotten thoughts from John’s mind.

He smiles back dopily, cradling his drink with both hands to steady himself, and Roger shoots him a wink.

The action sends a spark of arousal into the warmth of John’s gut.

He puts it out with a final swig of his drink, leaving the glass empty and his stomach full. He finds it doesn’t quite squash that feeling of—is it want? Does he want Roger right now?

Yes, he supposes he does. In quite a lot of ways. He feels a flush rise further up his neck, tickling his collarbones and the dip of his throat. He chases it with his hand, splaying his fingers over the area.

He’s still a little upset, but he’s also elated, and another vodka will have him swaying - he can feel the bubbly carelessness already present in him, held back by his unmoving posture against the bar. He’s sure if he moved around a bit, it’d flow through him quicker, livening up his limbs and tingling his bottom lip. Part of him knows alcohol doesn’t actually work like that, but snake venom does, so it’s based in some fact at least.

John decides to test it when he orders his next drink, swaying his hips side to side with the music to get his blood flowing.

He has to admit, it works. The liquid sloshes around in his otherwise empty gut and rushes up his spine into his head, blurring the room enough that he can’t make out the finer details.

That wonderful room of light and sound comes back easily. John dances his way into it.

 

He’s in the middle of a spin when he feels a hand slide up his back. It lingers and leaves in such a short space of time John isn’t sure it was there at all.

“Hey, Sly Stone, hows your vodka tonic treating you?” Roger’s gravelly voice is in his ear, and John registers the body that goes with it squeezing beside him to get to the bar.

“Sly Stone?” John asks.

His lips don’t seem to form the words properly, but it’s loud enough in the room that it shouldn’t matter. John brushes his hair away from his face and smacks his lips together to get some feeling into them. He isn’t super drunk, but he knows he probably needs to act ‘regular’ in front of Roger if he wants to appear sober. Then Roger looks at him, and John breaks out in a grin.

Roger shakes his head, hiding his smile under the curtain of hair that falls over it. “ _Dance To The Music_?”

John squints. “Who is?”

Roger laughs, shaking his head ‘nevermind’, and John leans closer into the sound.

“Hey, c’mon, hop back a bit,” Roger leans in the opposite direction.

It seems to catch the barkeep’s attention, because he raises his brows. Roger orders another lager wordlessly and drops the coins into his waiting palm.

“Cheers.” He says, then to John, “Why don’t you come sit over with me? You can say hi to my old mates from my biology course.”

John looks over at the table, where Roger’s friends he’s never met are exchanging close-spoken comments. The gal turns her head now and then, stretching her chin over her own shoulder to watch the band.

John does the same - he narrows in on a very still Brian, who is playing a sedated version of Purple Haze, eyes focused on his guitar and nothing else.

“Excuse me, while I kiss the sky—” Freddie’s low and Clara’s high blend together to sing the line, and John begins his swaying again.

He’s always thought it was ‘kiss this guy’ - a song cusping free love and rock ‘n’ roll. He knows know it’s most likely about being high, after a few re-listens, but his initial mishearing means the song stirs up a secret smile on his face when he hears it.

Beside him, Roger holds his lager over his chest, elbow cocked out, the way all the lads do. John looks down at his own drink and is pleased to see there’s some liquid still left.

He swallows it down, puts the glass on the wood behind him, and brushes his fingers down Roger’s sleeve, aiming to tangle their fingers together.

It’ll be hidden enough, given Roger is angled on his side, and John is perpetually crouching, but Roger doesn’t seem to think so given the way he snatches his hand away.

If John weren’t so at ease, he might be annoyed by Roger’s snubbing.

No, he thinks. If he weren’t borderline pissed, he wouldn’t trying this at all. He’d be on his first drink still, watching Roger socialise, watching the band, and watching the clock behind the bar to tell him when it’s time to go.

He bites his lip and feels the dull tingles spread through his body. “Dance with me.”

Roger’s shoulder bumps him as he turns. “Huh?”

John uses the closeness to grab the lapel of Roger’s blazer - the metallic, rainbow-striped one he wears to the stall now and then. John’s pretty sure that’s where he got it from.

“Dance with me, jus’ here.” John repeats, louder this time.

Roger laughs, eyes quickly surveying the room before meeting John’s again. “Not exactly the place for dancing, mate. Or the music.”

John tugs. “I want you to.”

Roger wraps his hand around John’s wrist, pulling it away from his blazer and into his chest. It’s not quite a sweet, or even friendly gesture, but it’s contact. John splays his fingers out where they touch Roger’s upper body.

“You’re pissed, aren’t you?” Roger asks. His face spells out his amusement clear enough that John doesn’t have to answer.

“Oh, this is great. Drunk Deaky is a dancer, hm?”

“Not drunk.”

“Y’are, and you’re handsy.”

John takes his hand off Roger’s chest and shoves it into his back pocket. “You won’t dance with me.”

Roger surveys the room one more.

John - currently a little slow, but not an idiot - realises what for;  He’s checking if anybody is looking their way - at him, or at John, or at John standing so close to him. Them together. 

He’s nervous.

The song fades out, and Brian’s voice distracts him from his thought.

“Thank you, we’re happy to be here, we’re gonna take five for a bit...”

John looks back to Roger and he knows he has to get his words in order before the chatter of the bar fills the gaps. He leans in, tongue wetting his lips, and finds he doesn’t know what he was going to say.

He pulls back before Roger can do it for him.

“I’d like another drink.” He says hurriedly.

Roger frowns at him, but he nods. “Sure, Deaks.”

John steps back to give Roger more space at the bar, making sure their fingers don’t touch when he’s handed his glass.

The liquid is heaven in his mouth. Knowing it’ll only add to the fingerpainted mess his thoughts are becoming is an added bonus.

 

John is two sips in when he sees Freddie approaching.

He’s three sips in when he has room to hug him, congratulating him for being an absolute legend and getting up there.

He’s two thirds in when he realises Roger isn’t by his side anymore.

By the time he's finished, he doesn't mind  who’s around him or not around him.

The band is playing again; his friend’s voice is a lively lullaby to his simple mind, and the room has effectively started spinning.

John takes himself as partner and begins to dance.

 

 

-

 

“Love? Love, hop up off the floor, will’ya?”

John lifts his head from the thing bruising his cheek. His eyes half-open, but the light is too bright, so he settles for a squint.

A pair of heels are in front of him, contrasting the white tiles. He looks up, following corduroy-covered legs to a stranger’s crotch, then up to their bent-over torso. He reaches their face, and is met with silky strands of black hair, swaying in front of his face.

“Hey, you alright?” They ask, voice high and babying.

John grunts at it.

He feels hands try to pull at his elbow, and he grunts again. “M’alright. Let go.”

The hands retreat immediately.

“Oh, you’re a bloke. Erm—what’re you doing in the girl’s lavvy?”

John looks around as best he can without moving his head and yeah, he is in a loo, if the white tiles and hovering stall door are anything to go by. He looks up - it’s not a toilet he’s leaning on, but the sink outside the stall itself. To answer her question in his own head: He doesn’t know what he’s doing in here. Or why he came in here. His best guess is he needed a piss then decided he needed a nap more. His forehead throbs, and he stops the thinking process completely. It’s too much.

He feels her hands on his elbow again, and this time he lets himself be pulled onto his own unsteady feet. He sways, and she grabs his back to straighten him up.

“Who left you alone?” She asks, like she’s found a kid without his mum.

John matches her steps - left, right—stumble—left, right, bump into a door with his shoulder, toe snatches on the floor, right? Left?

He stops walking, and his elbow is tugged on.

“C’mon, I’ll take you up to the bar.”

The bar. Oh, right! Drinks. She wants to buy him a drink.

Super lovely. But no, that’s not what buying someone a drink is.

John frowns.

“Can’t.” He says, because she can’t possibly know he’s bent—maybe if he’d worn his boots. Is he wearing his boots?

He looks down to check, and a sick feeling rushes into his stomach. John stills. His mouth fills with slick, hot saliva.

“Can’t what? What’s—Are you alright?” An unfamiliar face crowds John’s vision. “Are you gonna be sick? Is that why you were in the loo?”

John can only nod. He hunches forward, and he can’t see much, but he knows if he aims for a corner he’ll at least miss the girl in front of him. She’s been far too nice for him to throw up on her.

“No, no, bloody hell. This way, come on!” She takes his hand, and a few short steps has John surrounded by white again.

“I’m not s’posed to be in here, but you were in the girls’, so I guess fair’s fair.”

_Guess it is,_ John thinks.

Then he heaves forward, aimed by a steady hand on his back, and vomits.

The taste of stomach acid and pre-digested alcohol stings his tongue, the feeling of the slick, mucusy substance in his gut and the watery liquid of his drinks coming out all at once has him vomiting again.

It’s a urinal wall, he realises when he pulls back for air. How disgusting.

There’s a hand in his hair, softly tugging back the longest parts, away from his face. He can hear the door open and shut, but he doesn’t dare turn to check who it is in case the movement stirs up another round of heaving. He stares at his own vomit, pooling at the bottom of the metal wall, and wonders what the fuck he was doing before this.

“Uh, hi? D’you mind taking your friend to the right loo, sweetheart?”

“Sod off; He was passed out in the girl’s loo. I’ve brought him in here to have his guts out”

“He? Hold on—John?”

_Roger?_

John starts to turn his head, and a rush of saliva fills his cheeks - he turns back quickly to spit it out, a few clear lines dribbling down his chin. He wants to wipe it off, but his hands are the only thing keeping him upright.

“This your mate then?” The girl asks, and John hopes desperately Roger says yes. Because he’s definitely giving him a great reason to say no.

There’s a pause - a space with no words where his hair swings back into his face, catching on the dribble there. His eyes sting miserably. If his stomach weren’t twisting and turning with the effort of trying to rid itself of the alcohol he’s drunk, he might have the energy to cry.

Roger’s voice sounds far-off and right up in his ear when he speaks next, and John winces at the volume.

“Yeah, he is. I can take over. Cheers.”

John feels his hair pulled back from his face and a finger rub gently at the corner of his mouth, smearing the spit there.

“He’ll be alright?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. Thanks again.”

John can’t see her, but he feels the girl linger at the door before she pushes it open.

He croaks out a thanks, and it hurts his throat to do so.

When she’s gone - and John can only assume she is - Roger takes his face in his hands and turns him away from the urinal wall.

His eyes are tear-filled and unfocused, and the lights still hurt, but he manages to find Roger’s face among the mess.

“Hey, Rog.”

Roger sighs. “Hey, Deaky.”

John spits once more into the sludge of his own vomit, now heading steadily towards the drain, and leans his head forward into Roger’s grip. He doesn’t feel quite as horrible now that his stomach’s empty, but he still feels the dizziness of the drink. It takes him longer to process - Freddie’s singing, resorting to notes to pay for his drink, losing Roger in the crowd again, wanting somewhere to hide from the bloody eyes he could feel on him when he just wanted to dance in peace. That nice girl with black shoes, who held his hair.

Where’s she?—Oh, she’s gone.

“Y’called her sweetheart.” John’s mouth mumbles out the words before his brain can form them as a proper thought. He frowns, crawling further away from the urinal and toward Roger’s legs. Roger gets the hint, and helps pull him to his feet.

“You didn’t like that?” Roger’s voice is light, like he’s amused with him.

John’d come up with some kind of insult if he were coherent enough. He shakes his head, because no, that’s not it. He swallows, and the taste in his mouth has his face twisting into a grimace.

“Come over here, bend down a bit—Just here’s the tap. I’m gonna turn it on for you.” Roger has his hand on his head now, and John does what he says, bending his neck down and sucking into the stream of tap-water that’s running over his chin.

He sloshes it around in his mouth a few times, spits, and wipes at his face with uncoordinated fingers. He takes one sip, but he can feel it like a lead weight as it slides down his throat into his sensitive stomach, so he doesn’t drink any more. Roger turns the tap off when he pulls back, and wipes at his face with something soft but scratchy.

His blazer, John realises.

An arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him down ever so slightly, and John frowns.

“You don’ call me sweetheart.” He says, remembering his point.

Of all things, Roger laughs.

“What?” John pouts.

Roger starts leading him out, back into the loud busyness of the pub, and John tries to shake out of his grip. He doesn’t want to go _out_ , he wants to stay here, alone and unbothered. Maybe if he lies down, he might be able to ignore anybody who wants to come in. Hopefully they’ll ignore him too.

“Dun’ matter.” John says, then shakes his head. “No- yeah…call me nice things.”

Roger laughs again, and the door swings open.

John is dragged through a bunch of people, bumping into shoulders of folks he doesn’t know, and most likely stepping on several toes. Everything’s too much all at once for him to notice exactly what’s going on. He keeps his focus on Roger’s arm around his shoulder, guiding him through the blur, and tries not to trip far enough to fall.

He lets himself breathe properly when he feels cold air on his face.

He can hear people he knows - his friends - talking nearby.

He hears them get closer as he moves forward, then he’s sitting, but he’s moving still, and his stomach starts to turn again.

Roger keeps his arm around him the whole time, steadying him.

 

 

John falls back onto something soft and wonderful.

He turns onto his side, arms coming up to cover his eyes from the light, immediately content.

“God, is this what I was like?”

Roger’s voice speaks to him softly. John hums at the sound of it. He wants to hear more of it.

“Are you gonna get changed?”

John hums again.

“Come on, sweetheart, turn over.”

John rolls onto his back, eyes flicking open. Roger stands above him, off to the side, looking down with a funny expression on his face. John smiles at him.

“Tha’s nice.”

Roger’s pulls on John’s ankle, and he giggles.

“What’s nice?”

“You know.” John says. Roger starts to untie his shoelaces, and he kicks his feet. “You know.”

The shoe slips off his foot and falls to the floor, and Roger immediately goes for the other one. John slides his sock-covered foot up Roger’s torso.

“Say it more.” He demands. The tone of his own voice has him turning his face into the mattress. He doesn’t mean to sound so…whiny? Girly? He spits a strand of his own hair out of his mouth, and turns back to Roger, whose smug smile has him hiding his face again.

“Are you gonna get yourself ready for bed if I do?”

John bites his lip. “Yeh.”

Roger makes a noise, and John twists on the bed so he can watch him through his hair. He pulls on the band of John’s left sock and slides it off.

“Sweetheart. Baby, angel, darling.” Roger’s usually high voice has dropped a pitch, dripping low into John’s ears. “You look real pretty—”

“I look pretty?”

“So pretty.” Roger confirms. “But I want you to change into your jammie shorts so you can be comfy, too. Do you want a shower?”

John shakes his head, feeling the covers slide across his cheek as he does so. They’re warm and soft, and he figures he can close his eyes and sleep here if Roger will stop touching his ankle. He kicks his foot out again, and it collides with something equally soft.

Roger groans, and his hand leaves John’s ankle.

“Jesus Christ, John, you got me in the dick!” He whines.

John freezes for a second - that isn’t at all what he meant to do, but…It’s kind of funny. He’s giggling, pressing his lips into the covers to hide it, before he can even apologise.

“It’s not funny, you bastard!” Roger says, though he doesn’t sound mad.

That’s good, John thinks. He doesn’t want him to be mad at him.

What does he want? Oh, of course.

“Rog,”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me?” John asks hopefully.

He feels Roger’s fingers dance along the seam of his pants - along his calf, up to his knee, down to his foot again.

“After you get changed,” He says, then when John doesn’t move, “C’mon, love.”

“That one s’nice. Love. Love…ly. Lovely!”

John smiles to himself, and Roger pulls him up into a sitting position.

“You’re pretty cute, y’know.” He says, and tugs John’s shirt up to his armpits. John raises his arms so he can slide it all the way up and off.

He shivers when the air hits his bare skin. Roger chases the cold away with his hands, rubbing up and down his sides, dipping into the ridges between his ribs, the dip underneath where his ribcage ends and his waist begins, the hollow and point of his hips. Once Roger deems him warmed up enough, he retreats his fingers and himself entirely, disappearing and returning instantly with a shirt in his hands.

John lifts his arms dutifully, and Roger pulls the shirt down onto him, guiding his arms through the holes and sweeping his hair out of the neckline and onto his back.

“Done?” John asks, feeling light and dreamy and well cared-for.

Roger tucks his hair behind his ear. “Not yet—Pants off, then we’ll brush our teeth.”

John shakes his head, dislodging the hair Roger’s just brushed back.

“John, you’ve gotta brush your teeth. I’m not gonna kiss you with vomit still in your mouth.” Roger tells him.

John makes a face. “Didn’t vomit.”

“Oh, yes you did! Nearly in the wrong bathroom, too.”

“…Nah.”

“Yeah. Don’t you remember that lovely broad looking after you?”

John thinks back. He gets as far as being led into the bedroom. “You?”

Roger laughs, and rubs his thumb along John’s hip, between the fabrics of his shirt and trousers.

“No, not me. D’you remember how you got here?”

John nods. “You.”

He looks up, and sees Roger smiling at him. It makes him feel—Good. Just good.

Roger’s hair surrounds his face in a glow-y yellow, and John notices that the roots of his hair are actually browner than he thought before. Does he dye it? Does it grow that way? Doesn’t really matter. He looks kind of like a lion, if he squints. Hair all around his face. A mane - that’s what it’s called. John’s mouth turns up at the thought of baby-voiced Roger trying to growl like one. Maybe if he goes high enough he could do a convincing meow?

John’s hips are tugged downward, and the jolt breaks him out of his thoughts.

“Lift your hips up for me?”

Right—he’s being undressed.

John does what he’s told, putting his weight on his upper back so he can lift his butt up as best he can - it’s hard given his feet aren’t touching the floor, so there’s no leverage, but Roger is able to wriggle his trousers down using the minimal gap John’s made, and strips them off his legs rather easily.

Once he’s free, John tucks his legs up into his chest and rolls over onto his side in the foetal position.

From his place above him, Roger groans. “John, this is taking forever. Work with me here.”

John rocks himself back and forth, feeling the mattress move with him as he goes, keeping him aloft and bouncy, and grins.

“Call me baby.”

Roger grabs one of his wrists, pressing it lightly into the bed to still him. “John, you’re off your face.”

Hair tickles his face as he shakes his head. “M’not. M’in a good mood.”

“You’re in a childish mood.”

“ _You’re_ a child.”

“You’re a baby.” Roger says, and John squints. He may not be able to make out the rest of the room in detail, but he can see Roger’s face, clear as day, surrounded by that halo of hair.

“My baby.” Roger adds tentatively.

John suddenly remembers he’s wearing a shirt and underwear and one sock—he is dressed the part. But that’s a bit weird. He tells Roger as much.

Roger lets go of his wrist and throws his hands up in the air - a rather dramatic notion, John thinks.

“I can’t win, can I?”

John just giggles. “Come sleep here.”

Roger groans. “You’ve gotta brush your teeth.”

“Darling,” John drawls, and laughs at how it sounds coming out of his still slightly slack mouth. He says it again. “Darling, darling, Rog.”

Roger groans louder. “You’re making this hard for me, love.”

John buries his his face into his hands, little hiccupy laughs escaping through his fingers.

_Hard. Love._

He kicks his legs out again, careful of Roger’s crotch, then tucks them back into the warmth of his own body. He feels happy. Feels good. He wants Roger to sleep next to him and play with his hair. He also wants him to kiss his neck like he’s done before. Wants him to…Wants him to do something. Kiss him. Touch him.

John’s hands stay pressed to his face as the thoughts filter though his foggy brain, messing with his insides. He reaches his arm out over the covers, but can’t find Roger’s hand.

“Rog,”

“Mm?”

“Please c’mere?”

Roger doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he doesn’t say what John wants to hear.

“I’ll be back,” He says, and John finds himself frowning at Roger’s back as he leaves the room.

John tucks his legs under him and sits up, confused. His hair is tangled on the side of his head where he touches it with his fingers. The ends are a bit crunchy, but fine after he pinches them between his thumb and forefinger and rolls until whatever is there crumbles away. He brushes at the bed with his free hand, and Roger re-appears holding two somethings in his hands.

“Wha’s that?” He asks. Roger places them - cups, John can see now - on the bedside table and flops down onto the bed beside him. He pulls a toothbrush out of one and hands it to John.

“Brush.”

John opens his mouth and closes it around the head of the toothbrush. The bristles tickle his tongue, and he can't taste any toothpaste on it, but he knows how to brush his teeth even while inebriated—his arm works on autopilot, moving the brush around his mouth.

“Spit.” Roger says, holding a cup in front of his face.

John does.

“No toothpaste.” He says once his mouth is free.

Roger makes a ‘hmm’ noise, and swaps out the cup he’s holding for a different one. “Drink.”

“But there’s no toothpaste.”

“The mint might make you feel sick, so I left it off.” Roger tells him. “Now drink.”

John drinks.

He pulls back after a few little sips, and Roger gently tips the cup back so there’s no spills. He drops the brush into the water, places the cup back on the bedside, and turns to John.

“Was that so bad?” He says, smiling through his words.

Johns head is spinning with the amount of feelings it’s trying to comprehend right now. He smiles, leaning forward into the body beside him until his head settle into Roger’s neck.

He can feel the vibrations on his skin when Roger says, “Hm?”

John crawls in further, pushing his face in harder until his sight is blocked out by Roger’s shoulder covering his eyelids. His nose is in the way, but he angles his head up just enough that he can press a kiss into Roger’s shirt.

He’d prefer it if there were no fabric in the way, but he makes do with what he has.

Roger makes another sound, like this is all so amusing, and John pulls back.

“What?”

Roger’s hand finds the back of his head, and he digs his fingers into his scalp, massaging the skin with minuscule movements. John tilts his head, asking the question again wordlessly.

“You’re just…” Roger starts, his words turning into a soft smile.

John wants to kiss him again. He even brushed his teeth.

“I brushed my teeth.” He says.

“I know.”

“You were saying something ‘bout me.” John prompts, before he can forget. Or before Roger moves along and John doesn’t remember what it is he didn’t say.

Roger shakes his head. John shakes his shoulder.

“You were. Tell me.” There’s a pause, so John says it again. “Tell me.”

 

Unexpectedly, Roger gets up - dislocates himself from John’s surrounding body and walks over to the door. He doesn’t go through it, but flicks the switch beside it, dousing the room in darkness.

John blinks, suddenly unable to see, and wonders if he said something wrong. Can’t’ve. He’s said hardly anything.

“Just a sec,” Roger’s voice tell him, and John settles a bit.

Several moments later, the bed dips beside him, and John shuffles back to give Roger room.

Bare skin slides along his legs, and John doesn’t recall Roger not wearing pants before. _Must’ve gotten changed,_ his brain supplies. _Shame the light was off,_ his thoughts add, and he bites his bottom lip.

John feels Roger situate himself in front of him, wriggling down on the bed so his hips fit in the V John’s make, and the backs of his knees are covering his. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle.

They fit together perfectly.

He’s known it for a while - they sleep comfortably and undisturbed, night after night, settling back down after nightmares or dreams or causeless wakings. He wraps his arm around Roger’s middle, and Roger tucks himself closer in return.

Their fingers twine together at Roger’s waist.

Perfect, he thinks again. Such a fitting word. John pulls his other arm up to slide it under the pillow and under his head, bracing his neck in the same comfortable way he does each night. He slept like this as a child, too, he remembers. Obviously as a child he didn’t have a Roger to hug close, but he did have a stuffed bear for about a year or so.

Roger is enough like a teddy bear to fit the part, John decides. He nudges his nose against the back of Roger’s neck, and huffs out a breath through his nostrils when the hair there tickles his face. It reminds him of Roger having a mane again, and the second puff of air is a substituted laugh.

Roger rocks back against him. “What’re you laughing at?”

John smiles, moving his nose out the way so he can finally press a kiss to Roger’s bare skin.

It’s not what he’s been asking for throughout the night—has he asked Roger for a kiss tonight?—but it does just fine.

He gives Roger a soft bite for good measure, then moves his mouth away, albeit reluctantly.

“John?”

John rests his had back onto the pillow, resting his forehead on Roger’s spine - it forms a little gap between them so he can breathe easily while still being close. He sucks in a deep breath that makes his head spin and closes his eyes.

“John.” Roger’s voice is quiet, but it’s there. “Sweetheart.”

The pet name stirs him from his haze. “Mm?”

“Before, I was going to say…You’re sloshed, but you’re still wonderful, y’know?”

John doesn’t quite understand, but he nods against Roger’s back anyway. Roger’s fingers tighten in his grip, and John closes his eyes once more.

“I adore you.” Roger says.

“Love you, too.” John says back.

Roger’s silence covers the room like a blanket, and the wave of tiredness inside John swells, pulling him under as the tide goes out.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> Oh hi ;)
> 
> I've never ended on such a line before. Fun, right?  
> As you can tell, this took longer to come out than the others, but in a more realistic time-frame. I was doing a chapter a day last week, which is quite ridiculous I must say.  
> Regardless—hope you enjoy this chapter, with its 9k of John mostly being in a pub.  
> Love you all for your feedback, each and every time - it makes me so happy reading through them and replying to them. XxX
> 
> (Ps. Ratty if you're reading this: drop the fic you weasel)


	9. come together

Freddie and Roger are already in the lounge by the time John wakes up.

His limbs feel far too heavy for the amount of meat on them, and there’s a persistent fishhook tugging at the back of his skull ever time he moves his eyes. Or his head. Or his body.

He makes his way out into the kitchen with throbbing temples and an ache at the back of his eyes, aiming for the Marlboro’s on the table. He gets about halfway, then stops. He waits until the fluid in his ears has stopped sloshing around, tossing his equilibrium off balance - or is that his head? - and continues walking.

He sits in his chair as carefully as he can, wanting a pair of sunglasses to slip over his face, and takes a smoke out of his pack.

Freddie’s voice comes at him from the side, hitting his eardrums with the force of him slamming cupboards when he’s mad.

“Morning to you too, dear.” He says. John decides it’s far too sassy for however early it is.

“What time’s it?” He grunts back.

“Oh, only half two in the afternoon.” Roger calls out from somewhere by the telly.

John groans. “Fuck.”

“Language!” Freddie reprimands, then he grins. “Did you have a nice night?”

John flicks ash at him.

“Horrible useless roommate, giving me such attitude!” Freddie rocks the back of his chair, then leaves him alone to head toward the fridge.

In lieu of sunglasses, John pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Head hurt much, John?” Roger’s voice is closer this time.

John looks up - gently, ever so gently - and sees Roger making his way to sit in his own chair at the table. John offers him his pack, but Roger waves him off, holding up his own.

“A bit, yeah.” John admits, though it’s so much worse.

He wonders if they have paracetamol in the cupboard.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, finding the smoke actually irritates his lungs - something it hasn’t done since he started smoking around a year ago - and he blows it out faster than usual. He taps the end on the glass ash tray and leaves it to burn in there.

“Tea, Deaky?” Freddie calls, and by the sounds of his voice, he’s got his head in the fridge again.

It’s confirmed by the look on Roger’s face when he turns toward the bench.

“Jesus—Fred, you don't need to go  _all the way in_  to check for milk!”

John winces at the volume, and Roger shoots him an apologetic look.

“I’m also checking if it’s clean, Rog, something I’ve never seen you do! Also, I wasn’t talking to you.” Freddie says.

Roger rolls his eyes and lights his cigarette, puffing smoke out into John’s face.

“Tea would be lovely, Fred.” John says.

His eyes don’t leave Roger’s mouth where it’s wrapped around the filter. When they do move up to his eyes, he finds Roger already looking at him.

“Hey, Deaks.” He says, and his eyes crinkle up into a smile. “What’cha looking at?”

John moves his hand to cover his forehead. “Piss off.”

Roger leans back, face smug and cigarette dangling gracefully between the lips John’s just been caught staring at. “Nah, don’t think I will.”

“‘Course you won’t,” Freddie says, having emerged from the fridge, “I’ve been trying to get rid of you for months—You simply won’t go.”

Roger turns to him. “Yeah, as if. You’d be bored out of your mind without me. I’m your muse.”

Freddie snorts. “Of all the muses, I’d choose one with a nicotine addiction and an outlandish fashion sense?”

“Pot and kettle, Fred. Of course you would.”

Freddie plonks himself down into his chair, and the sound of the kettle finally starting to boil fills the room. John notes the radio isn’t on, but it might’ve been in the morning. He wonders what his friends have been doing while he’s been asleep—if they tried to wake him up, or just left him to sleep it off. John picks his cigarette out of the tray and sucks down a drag.

Beside him, Freddie subtly pulls his Marlboro’s toward himself, sneaking a smoke out and popping it between his lips. He then pushes the box back in place like nothing’s happened, and John knows where his missing cigs have been going.

“Do you remember much from last night?” Freddie asks him, peering at his fingernails.

John shakes his head, then rethinks it. “Sort of, actually. I remember you singing, and I was dancing to you,”

“To me and me alone? How flattering.” Freddie says. John gives him a look.

“To the band. Which you’re a part of now?” John asks, looking to Freddie for an answer.

Freddie just flicks his hand in the air, around his face. “Oh, I don’t know yet.”

John nods. “You were good, anyways.”

His friend smiles, teeth poking out under his top lip, and puts his smoke back in his mouth. “Thank you, Deaky.”

On the other side of him, Roger shifts closer, his chair squeaking along the floor as he does. The sound sends a stab of pain through John’s head, and he grits his teeth.

“Sorry,” Roger says sheepishly.

John gives him a smile from the corner of his mouth -  _it’s fine._

“So,” Roger continues, “Do you remember much else?”

John turns to him.

His face is blank - nonchalant, casual - but John knows that’s not an expression in Roger’s repertoire. He’s not sure the concept of nonchalance has ever taken hold in Roger’s brain. He’s far to emotionally invested in - well, everything. Whatever this is included.

Roger’s eyes follow him as he turns back slightly, so he’s facing forward, and John thinks over the question as he answers.

“Yeah, I do.” He says, and Roger squints. “I think I threw up in the women’s lavvy, and then—we went home in Brian’s van, right?”

“Yeah,” Roger says. “You fell asleep for a bit.”

“On Roger’s lap,” Freddie interjects, “It was awfully cute.”

John catches the fierce eyes Roger throws Freddie. Freddie holds his hands up, grinning.

“And what else?” Roger prompts.

John looks at him - how his eyes are wide, head tilted his way, ignoring whatever Freddie is doing to focus on whatever is going to come out of his mouth.

Like he’s waiting for him to say something specific.

It clicks, then, what Roger wants to hear from him, and John suddenly feels cruel for staying in bed so long. He looks over at Freddie watching the kettle intently and wishes he weren’t in the room. Just for now.

John flicks his eyes back up to meet Roger’s, and he realises time is passing between the question asked and his non-answer. Roger’s brows start to knot together in a way they’ve done before - when John stays silent, lets the people around him assume the worst. When he's told something and doesn’t know how to process it, so he stews on it in silence until he has people telling his parents he may be depressed. Written notes to the school counsellor and climbing the stairs early after dinner to avoid talks with his dad.

He sees those assumptions settle onto Roger’s face, and he knows he can’t have them stay there.

John flicks his cigarette into the ash tray so he has a spare hand to meet Roger’s under the table.

It’s not subtle, but he really doesn’t care if Freddie sees at this point. They’re not exactly hiding.

“You made me brush my teeth, and you didn’t give me any toothpaste.” John tells him, and watches Roger’s eyes narrow in on his.

He feels Freddie get up to take the kettle off the stove, despite the whistle not having gone off, but he doesn’t break his gaze.

“And?”

“And…” John feels Roger’s fingers squeeze his together. “I said something I meant. And I think you did, too.”

Roger looks away, then, long eyelashes blinking down onto his cheeks a few times. John shakes his grip a little so he can slot their fingers together properly, resting their combined hands atop Roger’s thigh.

“I remember.” He says, feeling bolder than he has in a while. He chews the inside of his mouth. “I remember both times.”

Roger’s eyes dart back up to his face, looking from eye to eye like he’s trying to find something in them that John is hiding.

John squeezes his hand again, because he’s sure. He’s never sure, ever. But he’s sure.

Roger takes a breath. His smoke burns away between his fingers.

“I did.” Roger says, and his face screws up. “I mean I do. Mean it. Meant it.”

John gives him a shy smile, and it grows into something warm and blooming when Roger returns it. He rubs his thumb over the back of Roger’s hand.

From the bench, Freddie calls out, asking if they’d like tea.

“Yes, please, Fred.” John says through his grin.

He feels a bit giddy, holding Roger’s hand under the table, admitting such things without ever mentioning the words themselves.

“Yeah, alright.” Roger says, leaning forward to stub his smoke out in the ash tray.

John hears the click of the lid being taken off the teapot, then the water being poured into the pot itself.

“Oh, you two are disgusting.”

John rounds his shoulder to see Freddie looking between them, hands on his hips. There are three teacups lined up on the bench behind him.

“Sod off, Fred.” Roger says, and uses his free hand to pull a fresh smoke from his pocket. He lights it, tosses the lighter on the table, and John feels his own hand being pulled up along with Roger’s. He goes with it.

Their joined hands land with a bang on the table, and Roger relaxes back in his chair, blowing smoke up into the air. John just smiles sheepishly at his friend, aware of how tightly he’s been holding Roger and how  _out there_ they are in this moment.

Freddie tries to scowl, but it comes out as a grin quirking at the corner of his mouth, trying to form his clearly pleased expression into one of fake annoyance.

“Oh, fuck it. You’re too precious for your own good, John.” Freddie says, giving up the pretence and smiling fully at him.

“Oi! I got him first!” Roger yells, and John wants to bury his head in his hands for two reasons now.

“Yes, you did.” Freddie says.

John meets his eye, and there’s far too much mischief among the deep brown to unpack for the amount of brainpower he has, so he just takes Roger’s cigarette from his mouth and puts it in his own.

“Yes, he did.” He says around the filter.

He half expects Roger to let go of his hand and use it to motion for bet money from Fred, given the look they exchange.

Roger turns to him, and his baby blues are half-hidden by his droopy eyelids, bottom lids scrunched up in a smile that exists only in his eyes.

He mouths something at him Freddie shouldn’t be able to catch from the angle - as private as they can get with the three of them all in the one space.

John slowly blows smoke out the corner of his mouth, lips turning up at one corner.

“You too.” He says.

Roger beams at him.

“Tea ready, Freddie?” He calls out.

“Yes, tea’s ready. But I swear, if you two start curling up reading the Digest and going for early morning walks I’m going to have no part in it! Tea included!” Freddie says, smacking his hand on the bench-top for emphasis.

“Wouldn’t that be not included, Fred?” John asks innocently.

“You shut up, Deaky!”

“Hey—”

“You too, Roger!”

“Yes’m.” Roger says, slinking back into his chair.

John gives his hand a squeeze - They share a look, then burst out laughing, leaving Fred standing confused in the kitchen and John's heart feeling as though it’s about to burst. His head feels the same, but there’s paracetamol for that.

When Fred sets his mug down, he finds he’s placed two onto the table next to it.

 

 

-

 

 

“So, you  _do_  want me to make recommendations?” John looks down at Ian, who’s perched on his stool behind the register, puffing slowly on a hand-rolled cigarette.

The store opened half an hour ago, but aside from one guy who comes in early on Tuesdays, they don’t usually get customers until around nine. John’s asked why he doesn’t just move the opening time to nine, but Ian told him it’s part of the routine now. He’s too old to be making changes to things like  _routines_.

The sun is bright, but not warm, so John’s wearing a thick jumper and a cardigan vest over it, paired with his more forgiving pair of jeans - flared out at the calf, a bit baggier around his thighs - and a borrowed pair of Taylor’s from—well, Taylor. The shop has heating, but it doesn’t get switched on until winter, which is far too many months away for John to be asking to turn it on now. He’s considered doing it himself, but doesn’t want to risk the teddy bear turning into something less friendly should the heater rule have a bit more background than he’s been given.

Maybe it’ll blow up, who knows. John looks out the window at a group of passing women, who don’t so much as glance into the shop window.

Ian waves a hand out at him. “Ey, son. Listening?”

John quickly nods.

“Right, good. So basically, you get to know the product, you get to know what kinda people are gonna be able to use it. You’re good with tech, yeah? Use that. Someone comes in wanting some high tech piece that they won’t be able to use, head ‘em on over to something more suited to ‘em.” Ian says, using his cigarette to point at various items in the store for emphasis.

John nods again. “Got it. But, erm, isn’t the point of selling things to have people buying the more expensive stuff?”

Ian chuckles, shaking his head no.

“Oh.”

“No, son - the point of this is givin’ people the equipment they need to make music. You sell a hippie a Fender, you’ve got a sale, but you don’t know nothin’ about what he’s gonna do with it. You get someone like this bloke out here coming in, you want to get a feel for how he plays and head him in the right direction.” Ian says, stubbing out his cigarette in the tray under the desk.

He waves his hand around in the air a few times, then waves at the door. “Come in, ye troublemaker, you.”

John looks up from the rack of guitars he’s been focusing on, trying to pick what brand they are just by sight - something he’s been practising quite a bit - to see who Ian is referring to.

His eyes meet those of the young man who’s just walked through the door, and he freezes.

Familiar, baby blue doe eyes stare back at him.

There’s a moment where his shock has him stock still, a steady vibration working its way into his fingers. Then it builds into a shake, and John tears his eyes away to stare at his feet. He needs to calm down. It’s fine.

Roger stands cheerily with his hands in his coat pockets, a garish faux-fur piece that’s far too big for him, and gives him a small smile.

“How’s it going, Ian?” Roger nods over to the man.

“Ah, away with ye,” Is his response.

John blinks at his boss, who is smiling fondly at Roger - as best as he can appear fond with his heavy-set brow and quasi-permanent frown.

“Place is looking pristine as ever, mate,” Roger states, and ducks a cigarette butt thrown at his head - one Ian must have just plucked out of the ash tray. He almost smiles at the exchange, but remembers why his stomach feels like it’s twisting right now, and his expression stops halfway to something pleasant.

“Got someone who knows how to put his shoes on the right feet to help out,” Ian says, and John can tell he’s smiling in that warm way he talks about him - like he’s actually done more than he has. “Reckon everything’ll be fine when the baby comes round.”

“Should’ve hired me! I’m telling you, I’d have things going like a well-oiled machine.”

“A machine on fire, more like!”

The two share a laugh, and John feels distinctly out of place. He swallows that down, because thinking that way has never helped him before and won’t help him now, so he steps on his own toes and forces his eyes up to the side of Roger’s face. He’s growing stubble there, under where his hair stops at his ears. He hadn’t noticed that earlier.

“Mind if I steal your employee for a bit?” Roger asks. John picks up the ‘please’, even if it isn’t there in words.

Ian nods. “Garn’. None too busy in here anyway. Just be back before ye start any riots with that bloody hairdo.”

Roger makes to protest, but John stops it by shoving him forward - lightly, gently - toward the door. He takes the hint, opens it, and they both step out onto the street.

Once the door swings back shut and the wind picks up into pinpricks of icy cold through the stitches of their clothes, John realises he still has his hands hovering over Roger’s shoulders.

Does he move them? Does he set them down, rest them there on his coat in some kind of familiar gesture, out in public? What does he usually do with his hands anyway?

“Hey,” The wind takes the volume out of Roger’s voice, but there it is beside his ear - Roger’s warm cheek bumping his temple before he pulls away again. “You with me?”

The phrase is simple. A question of whether John is really present, or if he’s tucked up in his head, trying to hide from the world the way Roger knows he does - the way Freddie knows he does, too. It’s a trigger phrase to pull him back down to earth, one he didn’t even know he had, or needed. But there it is. It’s just him and Roger, out on the street. No-one else. Nothing bad, nothing coming crushing down on him. Roger’s face is soft and his eyes are concerned— _He’s not mad at him._

John’s voice doesn’t kick into gear in time to answer verbally, so he nods, and it seems to be enough of an answer for Roger, because he smiles. It’s mellow, nearly melancholy in the way it takes shape on his face, but it’s a smile from Roger, and it relaxes John.

He loves him. He loves him, so much.

The feeling nearly has him wanting to cry. He curls his fingers into his palms and rests them on the lapels of Roger’s coat, just like that. He knows if they weren’t outside and on the street, Roger’d probably take his hand the way he likes to do. The way he’s done in the past sometimes, even when they are outside, and he’s feeling brave. He compromises by stepping forward into his space just that little bit; an acknowledgement.

John flicks his eyes into the cool glass window of the shop, but he can’t see Ian at his desk. To the right, a few strays walking with satchel bags or wood-heeled shoes, but nobody paying attention to anything other than their reflection in the same-same shop windows of the street. He shouldn’t be pre-occupied with it - with how people think of him, how they see him - but he is. Has to be. They (the collective They he still isn’t sure he wants to be grouped in with, but is anyway) all have to.

“John—”

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble out of his dry mouth as soon as he hears Roger start to speak.

The blond frowns, then shuts his mouth in a comedic snap. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re sorry?”

John’s face flushes, but he pushes on. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I work here. I’m sorry I froze up when we talked about the flat. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you how I feel about you,” He pauses, catches a breath he never lost, and says, “Because I really care about you, Rog, and I want to tell you everything. I just can’t speak sometimes. I’m sorry.”

Roger steps back the slightest bit, causing John’s hands to slip down his front and hang awkwardly at his own sides. He tucks them quickly into the pockets of his trousers to stave off the cold, all the while studying Roger’s face for a reaction. It’s…it’s as if he’s shocked. Or at the very least, surprised?

Then he starts laughing, and John blanches.

“Deaky, you idiot! I bloody— I can’t—shit, I want to kiss you right now,  _so_  much.” He says, lips forming the words around a toothy grin. Seemingly ignoring the high-strung confusion on John’s face, he continues.

“Brian told me you got the job here. I never- It wasn’t important that you hadn’t told me. Or Fred, for that matter. I figured you’d come to us when you were ready. And the flat is actually what I came here to tell you about. Thought I’d surprise you by rocking up, which is, you know, a bit dumb now that I think about it considering I was gonna wait till you mentioned it yourself,” Roger pauses, biting his lip.

John toes a bit of stone jutting out of the concrete pathway, but he doesn’t look down. He’s absently proud of that fact. “Which part?” He says tentatively.

“Hm?”

“You said you were gonna wait till’ I mentioned something. Which part? The job, or the flat?”

Roger puts his thumb in his mouth so he can clamp his teeth over the nail there, and John resists the urge to smack his hand away. The same way Roger does to him when he covers his mouth (teeth) with his hand when he speaks.

“I came by  _here_  as a surprise,” Roger says, “I came by  _at all_ to tell you we got the flat.”

John blinks.

“The flat.” He repeats.

Roger nods excitedly. “Freddie’s so relieved. He ended up trying to look for a few other options when it looked like we weren’t gonna get a call back, but we did, and we’ve got a date to collect the keys and everything!”

John shakes his head. Swallows. “That’s great. Great for you guys. I’m—I’ll have to come by and have a look when you move in.” He says, because it hurts just that little bit, but he’ll never let that win out over happiness for his friends.

His friend and his…Roger.

To his surprise, that same Roger shakes his head back at him.

“Deaky, again, you idiot. We - as in, us. All of us. You think Freddie is ever going to let you live anywhere other than with him after these past months?” Then a shyer, “D’you think  _I_  would?”

John frowns, but not because he disagrees. He’s just…He doesn’t know how to process whatever fresh romance this is. Whatever false reality he’s in where things work out and conflict resolution doesn’t end in screaming and he actually gets to be happy longer than a few weeks at a time.

Roger smacks his shoulder, smuggling a thumb-rub into the gesture before pulling away. “I love you, Deaks.”

He says it so casually that it doesn’t even register in John’s head this is the first time he’s saying it back. The first time he’s said the same three words, returning them in an exchange John didn’t know he was waiting for. The feeling of wanting to cry returns for the exact same reason, and John presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth in a bid to stop it.

He can’t speak again, but this time he’s not being strangled by his own anxiety. No, this is a different kind of choked up. John nods, a few times just to get his point across, and Roger pulls him in for the slightest embrace. A millisecond hug that may as well have been an hour. Feels so long and too short all at once, and the cold wind is back between them once they’re apart but somehow doesn’t sting as much as before.

John kicks his toe into the same section of pavement. “I was gonna tell you earlier,”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. I wanted to tell you earlier. It was important that I tell you. This was the reason, y’know. Why I backed out the last time the prospect of moving was brought up. I didn’t want to be a burden.” John says, words coming out like an exhale of breath.

“I wanna be with you. Live with you. And Freddie. For as long as I can,” He says, “If you’d like that, too.”

Roger’s shoulders slump forward, making him seem smaller than he already is in that ridiculous coat, and his lashes are long enough to hit his eyebrows when he looks up.

“‘Course, love,” He says, and John is brought back to the night of him asking Roger to call him all the sweet names under the moon. His face flushes, but he isn’t embarrassed. Not when Roger says it now, so sincerely, like he’s been doing so for years. Maybe one day he will’ve been.

There’s a thought.

John finally moves the toe of his shoe away from the stone in the ground and reaffirms his footing, gesturing towards the shop door with his shoulder. “I should probably get back inside,” He says reluctantly.

Roger shrugs. “Knowing Ian, I’d be the one getting in trouble if you stayed out for hours, not you.”

“I was friends with his son,” He explains, catching John’s frown. “Used to get into a lot of playground tussles on his behalf.”

“Didn’t know he had one.”

Roger looks over John’s shoulder into the shop, then back. “He was killed in Soho two years ago. He doesn't really talk about him much. I guess I’ve kind of become a…a substitute, in a way? Someone he can look out for the way he didn’t get to for Jim.”

John doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, so he says, “Oh” and notes the distinct absence of a cigarette in his mouth he’d usually require for a conversation like this.

Roger brushes off the brief downfall of mood as quick as it came, and gestures toward the door for John to walk through. John does. Gives him a small smile, watches Roger take a few steps backward before he has his hand on the doorknob, ready to turn. He starts to, but quirks his head back over his shoulder just enough to meet Roger’s eye before he moves away properly.

“Rog.” He calls through the wind.

Roger’s chin tilts up - that wordless signal of ‘I’m listening’.

“The new flat. It’s two bedrooms, right?”

Roger’s face turns up into a slow, easy grin.

“Yeah. You should see ours - it’s small as fuck, but less shitty than the one we’re in now. No mould on the ceiling or anything.” He says, and John grins with him.

“Now go on; I’ll see you at home, yeah?” Roger asks.

“Yeah.” John confirms.

He waves a short goodbye, and enters the shop with a small pull of the door to keep the warm air in. His smile grows dopily with Roger out of sight, and he absently brings his hand up to cover his mouth.

_Ours._  he thinks.  _Ours._   _Home._

 

The expression of easy contentment must stay on his face longer than he’s aware, because at some point in running through the stock list - really a rudimentary system, checking the items off on a clipboard, but it works - Ian pokes him with the nib of his pen.

“I’ve seen that look before,” He says, face as stern as always, and it has John panicking for a second.

It causes Ian to laugh. “Calm down, ye flighty bugger. It’s alright w’me.” He says, and strikes a line through the next item on his list. The pen on the thin wood echoes around the back store room.

John side-eyes the man, watching for any kind of explanation at all, feeling like he’s a twelve-year-old and his dad is trying to tease him about something he doesn't quite get. “Um, what are we talking about exactly?” He asks.

Ian clips the pen in the latch, giving himself a free hand to clap John on the back - something he’s done before and will probably continue to do as a good-natured gesture, but one that hurts each time. There's not exactly much to John’s frame, something he’s acutely aware of when standing next to practically anyone his age or height, so a clap on the back is like a brick weight against his spine. He’s never complained about it though, and doesn’t plan on doing so, because it really is quite nice, despite the force of it.

“Ye don't have to give me any details or nothin’, I am just yer boss, but you tell me if anyone gives you any trouble, will ye?” Ian says, then he smacks him again, lighter this time, and takes the pen back out of the clipboard. “And don’t let him give ye any jib! Bloody mouthy feller.”

John nods. That, he can agree with.

 

 

-

 

He asks Roger about it later, when they’re tucked in bed and whatever happened during the day has been washed off with not-quite-hot-enough water and bottom-shelf lye soap.

Roger’s hair smells like that bland, strong conditioner smell that John’s never been able to pin to one scent. Whatever fruit of herb its replicating in hair-treatment form, he hasn’t encountered it before. Despite the mammoth amount Roger seems to use, his hair is still crunchy under his fingers when he combs through it, letting him know he’s tried another packet dye on himself and hid the evidence pretty well seeing as he hasn’t found the packaging in the bathroom bin, or heard Freddie screeching about stains in the basin. John decides to tease him about it later, and instead continues with his finger-combing.

“Hey, Rog?”

Roger hums, but doesn’t move his head to look up, probably just in case John stops playing with his hair. John would add it to the list of things to poke fun at him for, but he likes it himself, so he can’t fault him.

John continues.

“Ian’s son…How did he…?” He stops there, not knowing how to phrase the next part and not particularly wanting to use the word that typically follows.

Against his side, Roger shakes his head, dislodging John’s fingers from where they’re buried in the nest forming at the base of his skull. He sits up just a little, letting out a sigh as he does so.

“Jim was queer. He was ganged up on outside a queer bar. Got hit hard on the wrong side of his head, and that was that. Didn’t even fight back.” Roger clicks his tongue, as if he’s mulling over the incident in his head.

John wants to do some sort of comforting gesture, but doesn’t. He knows Roger isn’t keen on that sort of thing anyway.

“There was something tiny in the paper round there about a brawl among violent youth or some bollocks like that, but...anyone with a brain put two and two together. I guess most people just don’t want to hear the truth, hey?” Roger finishes dejectedly.

“No,” John agrees quietly. In his head, Ian’s words to him about letting him know if there’s any trouble regarding him or Roger—No, him  _and_  Roger—stand out in a contrast that wasn’t there before.

“Why d’you ask?” Roger pokes his side, and John squirms away from the tickling sensation it causes.

He shrugs. “I just…just wanted to know, I guess.”

Roger pokes his lip out - ‘Fair enough’ - and settles back down into the bed, tugging the covers up over his chest.

John taps his fingers on his thigh. “Were you close?” He asks - cautious, as if it’s too personal a question.

“Not as close as we were, when we were younger. But I knew him.” Roger says, and John understands.

Roger nudges his head back into John’s hand, and John’s fingers run along the side of his face until they reach the baby hairs at the peak at the side of his hairline - the place they’ll both first start losing their hair when they reach a certain age. He wonders if Roger’ll keep his long hair for that long, or if he’ll shave it off one day in an act of impulsivity. He wouldn’t put it past him, really.

Roger speaks, but his voice is drowsy and soft, so John doesn’t quite catch the words at first.

“Do you ever worry that something like that will happen here? To us?”

John’s chest tightens at the way the words make Roger seem small. He moves his hand so he can wrap his arm around his middle, holding him more surely. They’re lying on their sides, twisted a little because Roger’s hair was wetting John’s shirt, so it makes holding Roger just that bit more difficult than normal, but it’s not awkward. It never is with him.

Roger’s question bounces around his head, and John thinks back. Every mocking cat call he’s gotten, every dirty look, every assumption; being outed to his dad, his interactions with Tim and every guy just like him, the substitute teacher who graded him so poorly he just  _knew_  she knew somehow and had an issue with it, with  _him_. He’s been hit before, thrown around a few times, sworn at plenty, but has he ever thought someone would take it that far? Is he scared of what’ll happen if he acts the wrong way in the wrong place? What’ll happen if he dares challenge any of the shit - the violence, the slurs, the hatred - that seem to be so commonplace?

“I try not to,” He says.

Roger nods against his chest. “Good.”

“I’ll protect ya, anyways,” He adds, and that playful,  cocky tone has re-emerged in his voice, settling them both back down to the comfort of before , “So you’d better not be.”

John squeezes him too hard, just to annoy, and nearly shouts an ‘Oi!’ when Roger punches his thigh, spot on a nerve. He digs his fingers into Roger’s side in retaliation.

“Better not be what? That was a half sentence.”

Roger goes to laugh, but it’s cut off and breathy - John digs his finger in a little harder, and Roger squirms. “Ouch, you prick. That tickles  _and_  it hurts.”

“Double threat.”

Roger makes a toothy face at him. Then he drops it, and he looks incredibly sincere even through John’s upside-down view of his face. “I meant don't worry about us. ‘Bout anything. Yeah?”

It could be taken as naive, or opportunistic, or any of the synonyms that go along with it, to ignore the outside world as it is and live on as if they’re in a bubble. But in that same vein, living in fear of living would do just as much harm.

John thinks he’s been doing alright so far.

He pokes a finger between Roger’s side, gentler than before, just because he can - because he’s right there, in the bed they share that is far, far too small for any two men to be sharing comfortably, but they do it anyway, because they want to be close. And because the couch has no cushions - for reasons Freddie still hasn’t revealed to him, and by this point, he isn’t sure he even wants to know.

He pokes Roger once more, and the annoyed grunt he gets in response has him smiling dumbly to himself.

 

“I love you, you know.” John whispers once the lights are out.

He isn’t sleepy yet, and by the way Roger keeps wriggling and re-adjusting the covers, he isn’t either. Roger pauses his war with one of the quilts, and John can tell he’s turned around by the hot breath on his face.

“I wanted to say it when I’m not drunk and you're not half-awake,” He adds.

The breath is replaced by even warmer lips on his cheek, brief and dry. “That sounds so nice when you’re not drunk and I’m not half asleep,” Roger says, “Say it again?”

John bites his lip. “Will you say it back?

“Always.” Roger tells him.

John smiles at the promise, glad he’s hidden by the dark, and repeats it. Roger does the same, slightly muffled by a quilt and hushed in the night. John thinks then that he’d be happy never hearing anything else. Just that imperfect rendition of a few words that have never meant that much to him until they do.

God, he doesn't know when he got this soft, but it seems to be his base thought process whenever he’s around Roger. Lovesick, his mum might call it. Disturbing, his dad might say. Maybe he’s a mix of both. It seems to be working out in his favour either way.

Roger lets out a snore, and if he wasn't tired before, that definitely brings his exhaustion to the forefront. John shuts off his mind - a short reprieve till the morning - and tucks himself around Roger. Back to the wall, chest flush against Roger’s spine.

He falls asleep just like that, and wakes with blonde hair splayed out over his face, smelling like sweet conditioner.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x
> 
>  
> 
> i want to thank you all for reading and commenting and kudos-ing and all those wonderful things. i appreciate all your feedback. 
> 
> i actually found this chapter in my google docs, written god knows how long ago, and in reading through i felt it fits as a kind of makeshift ending to this story. i know this is as close as i will get to ever finishing this fic, so i’d rather leave you guys with this and let you imagine the next stages of the boys moving into their new place together (with Fred of course) than eternally lingering on chapter eight.
> 
> thank you for being patient in the months between last chapter and now, and forever and always, to those who comment - not just on my works, but any work by any author - i take my hat and sneakers off to you. feedback and support are the backbone of any writer. (i’m not going to provide sources for this generalised claim, it’s just facts). once more, thank you for reading, and if you’re disappointed with this ending, i give you permission to be. be free now, kids. farewell.  
> 


End file.
